


I’ll fall for you soon enough, I resolve to love

by LazyBaker



Series: falling for you in hawkins, indi-fucking-ana [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, teenage boys being teenage boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-17 07:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 72,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13654215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: Billy is ignoring Steve, Steve is trying to find his footing with Billy, and a demodog needs to be buried.





	1. Chapter 1

The morning bell hasn’t rung yet. Steve’s breath puffs out in front of him as he leans against the brick wall next to the entrance, not wanting to go in just yet.

He’d spent most of yesterday afternoon at The Palace. The kids—mainly Dustin at his elbow nudging at him when to shoot—had shown him how to play _Galaga_. It took him nearly five dollars in quarters, but it turns out he’s actually _good_ at taking down those small aliens on the screen. He’d managed to beat Keith’s high score by the time he left, a boost to his confidence he could feel good about.

He’d gone home. Called his parents back after he saw they’d left three messages on the answering machine—the conversation had been short and one-sided while Steve mumbled his few responses as he ate from a casserole dish, what exactly it was he had no idea, but it was soft enough and salty and he was hungry. He’d passed out on his bed and slept through the night, not once waking up from a nightmare or thinking he heard _something_ creeping around in the house. 

This morning he flipped through an old Rolling Stone from the summer—Boy George with all that _hair_ is on the cover—and ate a mango that’s the highlight of his entire year.

While his face was still sore and he still looked like shit—still puffy and the bruising had only gotten worse overnight— _but he hadn’t care_ , he put on his favorite polo shirt. Styled his hair perfectly. Sprayed on some cologne. This morning he had been so sure, today would be a good day. There had been so much shit lately that it just had to even out at some point and today it would— _it had to_.

Steve hears the camaro before he sees it. Watches Billy park and Max jump on her skateboard and roll towards the middle school. It feels weird to watch. Weird to anticipate that blond head attached to denim everything. Steve shoves his hands into his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting and possibly being an idiot. His foot still jumps.

Steve hurries to focus on the other students outside. There’s a girl—Samantha—who’s in his first period Pre-Cal class, crouching on the ground and flipping through a stack of flashcards. Steve can barely make out lines of numbers. Wonders if they have a test today. He hopes not. 

Billy is only a few feet away, the thud of his boots on the cement echoes. Steve tenses. Bites his lip. Doesn’t know where to look— _Samantha? his shoes? Billy?_ The quiet outside fills up with expectations and Steve tells himself he _isn’t_ expecting anything—what could Billy do out here, not under the privacy of the bleachers or the quiet of the quarry?

It’s so dumb to even think about and he thinks about it _a lot_.

But Billy passes right by him. No half-assed ‘ _hey_ ’. No nod in the ‘ _we know each other and we might hate each other and we might like each other, but let’s not talk_ ’ way. 

Doesn’t even _look_ in Steve’s direction. 

“Hello to you too,” Steve says when the glass doors have shut and the bell is ringing loud in his ears.

 

—

 

Billy’s locker is on the east side of the building with the other juniors. Steve has no classes near enough to have a good excuse to walk by and try and casually catch a glimpse of Billy, but he does it anyways. Not bothering to try to come up with a reason other than he wants Billy to just _notice him_ for, like, _a second_ and that’s _really dumb_. Like, a fresh new kind of dumb only Steve can come up with because it makes avoiding Nancy _and Jonathan_ that much more difficult.

Except he does it anyways between every class he has for the day. And the next day. Either Billy’s gone Harrington-blind or Steve has died or gone invisible. Billy doesn’t look at Steve or catch his eye once. 

Nothing. 

He just keeps talking to Tommy, who’s hanging off one arm with the girl-of-the-day who’s hanging off the other, leaving no arm for Steve. Not that he wants one. But he’d like the offer of one, which is also just _dumb_

It takes one more day of this for Steve to get the hint that’s been in front of his face like a plate to the back of the head. 

Billy is ignoring him. Doesn’t want anything to do with him. He’s had his fill.

Steve doesn’t pick at why it bothers him so much. 

 

—

 

During lunch Steve tracks down Coach Harris in his small office near the gym. Coach is eating a sandwich that’s longer than Steve’s arm, waves him in with lettuce stuck in his teeth. Steve let’s his blue and purpled yellowing face do the talking. A break from basketball, at least until his head doesn’t hurt so much anymore. 

Coach Harris understands. He slaps a meaty hand on Steve’s shoulder, laughs about _boys being boys_ , tells him the _team’ll miss him_. It’s not like Steve’s the star player anymore. He’s not actually needed.

Coach gives Steve two weeks to heal up and get ready for the season.

 _Yeah_ , Steve thinks, _whatever you say, coach_.

 

—

 

It’s four in the morning and Steve’s got the house to himself. He’s standing in the backyard in only his briefs with his mom’s imported Afghan throw over his shoulders holding his bat loosely in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. It’s cold enough that his toes have gone numb from standing on the concrete bare footed and for him to see his breath in the light coming from inside the house.

He’s listening to the low growl of the camaro prowling through Hawkins, circling him—possibly. Hopefully. 

Steve holds his breath, listens as that rumble fades and he’s left with the chattering of his teeth, the quickness of his heartbeat. Imagines if Billy turned around and drove to his house, if the first thing he’d do would be to punch Steve or take his dick out and tell Steve to quit being a bitch and whip his out too.

Going from being the focus of Billy’s anger and attention and— _whatever the shit_ —to being completely ignored for almost two weeks has left Steve off kilter and thinking he made the quarry and the bleachers up.

“Fuck you too.” Steve says because he knows— _knows_ —he didn’t. The dark trees in the backyard seem to shudder.

Steve crouches and puts his cigarette out in the dirt. Goes back inside. Locks the backdoor behind himself. He waits for a minute, bat over his shoulder staring out the window—more waiting, more watching. But the house is its usual quiet and the forest is just full of the usual forest things and tonight it isn’t as unbearable as it has been the last few days. 

He sets the bat on the kitchen counter. Opens the fridge, looks at all the food he doesn’t want to eat and closes it. Gets some cheese puffs from the cupboard and the jar of chunky peanut butter to dip them in. 

He skips eating at the table, something he rarely does when he’s home alone, especially now that the table is stacked with college brochures thanks to his mom—some of them are out of his league and he knows his dad wouldn’t have bothered with those. Or, really, any of it.

With his bag of cheese puffs and jar of chunky peanut butter under one arm, Steve turns the television on in the den. It’s _The Andy Griffith Show_. What was on doesn’t matter so much as the noise, so he turns the volume up. Wanders around the house, turning on the lights, dipping his cheese puffs and popping them into his mouth.

His dad’s office is downstairs. It’s not locked, but ever since he wandered in and drew on the walls when he was _six_ Steve has been forbidden from going inside. But he does. Has been for years since he’s been left on his own for longer and longer periods of time. He likes to spin in his dad’s leather office chair. Kick his feet up on the desk. Look at the one family picture hanging on the wall. It’s over a decade old and is _the oldest_ thing in the room. 

_Lil Stevie on momma’s hip and daddy actually smiling._

Steve’s careful not to leave any crumbs. Goes upstairs. Sucks the cheese and peanut butter off his fingers as he goes into his parents’ bedroom, flicks the lights on and pokes around his mom’s vanity. Picks up a few of her lipstick to see the colors. Spritzes a little of her perfume into the air. He thinks the scent could be lilacs. Or roses. Or vanilla. Or dirt in the tire of a car. He has no idea, but it smells like her and it’s nice.

Steve’s room is packed with lamps from all over the house that he’s managed to sneak in over the last year. They’re all turned on. It might be the lack of sleep, but his room looks strange. Like it’s not his own. He decides it’s the perfect time to pack up all his Nancy mementos. 

One purple scrunchie. One pair of pink-polka-dot panties that Nancy had forgotten at his house when she left in a rush. He’d coveted them and shoved them in the back of his underwear drawer. He’d meant to give them back at some point, but it would’ve embarrassed her. 

Just thinking of them had been enough to get him off. 

Mainly, though, it’s a lot of photographs. Pinned to the walls. In drawers. Under his mattress. Taped to his closet doors. Tucked into his mirror. One is framed by his bed--a strip of photos from a booth downtown when they first started dating. He’d laid it down on its face after the break up. 

Nancy is everywhere and it takes barely ten minutes to de-Nancify his room not looking at any of the photographs for too long. He piles them up on his desk in a stack, unpinned and untaped and unframed, and wonders what he should do with all of it. He hadn’t had this problem with Laurie or Becky or Amy.

Nancy had been his first _actual_ girlfriend, which is probably one of the reasons why she isn’t his girlfriend anymore.

Now he’s eighteen. Has a radio set to a channel with, like, _seven_ thirteen year olds after Dustin strongly and annoyingly encouraged him to buy one. He’s up at four in the morning looking for his ex-girlfriend’s panties. He’s single.

He’d forgotten what that felt like. He’s not a fan.

Steve takes the photos and the panties and carefully puts them into the trashcan. Stares at the pile. At all the Nancys smiling up at him. They’re still together. Nancy is still pretending to love him. Past-Steve is still oblivious and happy and _so damn dumb_.

His chest aches so he moves on.

The scrunchie is harder to get to. It’s hidden under his bed and has been pushed back and is blending in with one of his shirts.

He plays with it for a minute in his hand then slingshots it into the trash can and misses. Waits for it to pick itself up and throw itself out, but that doesn’t happen so he has to do it himself. _Of course_.

Steve surveys the room now. It’s back to its old self. Before Nancy. Before the Upside Down. Plain ole Steve’s bedroom with his plain ole things.

He crawls back onto his bed, flops over and covers himself with his mom’s Afghan throw. Leaves the lights on. He can hear the Andy Griffith theme song playing downstairs and hums along with it. Stares at the ceiling. Tries not to think about anything. 

This is just who he is now. Running off of two hours of sleep in the past _weeks_ and single and ready to jump at the slightest shadow.

What a catch. Hot shit, that Steve Harrington.

 _I’d date me_ , Steve thinks and then clutches his pillow to his chest and says, “no I wouldn’t.”

 

—

 

It’s Will who tells Dustin who radios the order to Steve on Sunday morning—rather than using the phone to just, you know, _call him_ —he knows damn well Dustin has his phone number—that Mrs. Byers said to Will, with zero room for any arguments, ‘ _I want that demo-whatever out of my freezer TODAY mister_.’

Steve imagines Mrs. Byers opening that big freezer in the garage, forgetting the _thing_ is still in there. She would clutch at her chest and slam the freezer door shut and start unleashing an impressive string of curses as she called for Will and his little squad of nerds to clean their mess up.

Which now includes Steve. The biggest of the little squad of nerds.

Today it’s just Will, Dustin, Steve, a shovel, and a very frozen demodog in the trunk of his BMW wrapped in a tarp heading for the forest. 

It doesn’t take Steve five minutes to get dressed and start driving to the Henderson’s first, fingers tapping anxiously on the steering wheel as he rushes, not wanting to make Mrs. Byers wait. She has enough to deal with what with Bob’s funeral put on hold thanks to, what Dustin says is, _government bureaucracy_. 

Ms. Henderson—‘ _call me Claudia, dear_ ’—packed a lunch for all of them, including Steve. A peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. A juice box. A bag of homemade snickerdoodles. All packed in brown paper bags with their names on them. 

Steve manages to say _thank you_ , bewildered and touched. It’s the first time anyone’s packed him a lunch since elementary school and his mom had done it for a month before Steve begged her to just let him buy it at the cafeteria, tired of eating fruit and vegetables and _granola_ while the other kids got tater-tots. 

Dustin tugs on his arm, ushering him out in a hurry, face completely red as he shouts out a quick _bye mom_ through the screen door.

In the car, Dustin tells Steve, rolling his eyes, that the rest of the party are on _dates_. While Steve is not a fragile flower that needs to constantly have his confidence stoked, he can’t help but feel a bit unsettled that a handful of thirteen year olds are getting more action than he is.

It’s not that he’s bitter. But he might be.

The Byers’ house has been cleaned up and put back together again, looking just like any other house in Hawkins. Will is outside in the front yard waiting for them. The freezer is in the shed. The demodog inside looks as gross as Steve remembers it and he tries to not look at it or its way too many black eyes while he wraps it back up and carries it to his car, Dustin opening the trunk for him and Steve sort of throws it inside and slams the trunk closed.

Will—who’s by far the most polite kid out of all of the nerd party—tells Steve he can wash his hands inside and Steve practically runs to the Byers kitchen sink to scrub his hands and his face clean. Uses the dishtowel on the counter to dry off and heave a relieved sigh into. When he looks up he’s eye to eye with Jonathan. 

It’s the first time he’s seen him outside the crowded hallways at school or in the parking lot with Steve ducking down in his car to avoid any possible eye contact.

Jonathan isn’t expecting to see him either and is just as awkward as Steve, though he doubts the guy has the same nasty pit in his stomach like Steve’s been living with lately.

“Need any help with the—um,” Jonathan says in that soft, uncertain, voice of his that gets Nancy _revved up_.

Steve shakes his head. Folds the dishtowel and sets it back onto the counter—a perfect excuse to not look at Jonathan. To keep himself in check. To keep this conversation as brief as possible. Steer it into a wall and away from the road it’s likely to go down. He isn’t sure what his face is doing right now, but it can’t be _good_ and he’s really gotta get out of this house.

“I’m fine.” Steve says.

Jonathan’s got his hands in his pockets. Hunched over. Not really looking at Steve, like he can’t, and that _does_ set something bad off inside of him.

“I can—I don’t have anything—“

Steve cuts him off. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Thanks.” 

“Steve—“

Steve flees the kitchen then the house. He calls out a quick ‘ _bye_ ’ to Mrs. Byers before he shuts the front door with a little too much ‘ _I can handle a live demogorgon. I can handle a dead demodog. fuck you too_.’ 

The kids are already in the car. Dustin in the front, Will in the back. They wave to him and he waves back.

The sky is spotless, nothing but blue and sun, just warm enough to get a little hot in the chest. 

Steve puts his ray-bans on. It’s the perfect day to bury a monster.

 

—

 

Will brings the _Footloose_ soundtrack. Makes more eye contact with Steve than he ever has before— _with anyone ever_ , Steve guesses—holding the cassette out to him over the backseat like Steve had the option of saying ‘ _no_ ’ to those big puppy-dog eyes of his directed right at him in the rear view mirror, and is quietly singing _I’m holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night/he’s gotta be strong/and he's gotta be fast/and he's gotta be fresh from the fight/I need a hero_ for the third time—poking Steve in the shoulder with less and less hesitance at the end of the track for Steve to rewind.

Dustin points out places they could bury the monster, smudging the window with his fingers, at the same time whining in Steve’s ear about the waste of it.

“What if the cure for cancer is in there? Or, like, the common cold? Or—or _AIDS_? We could save so many people with it.” Dustin says, twisting in his seat to appeal to both Steve and Will.

“No.” Steve says. Settles on it like he knows anything remotely connected to science in or out of the Upside Down

“But it could—“

“—No, it couldn’t. It doesn’t.” Steve says. “There is no way that _that_ has the cure for anything inside it.” 

“But we don’t know.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I’m pretty sure. Like, 90% sure.”

“Yeah, but that’s a bullshit 90%. Not an _actual_ scientifically proven 90%.”  

“I’m 100% sure if you start trying to, fucking, I don’t know, cut into that thing the freaky government nutjobs are gonna be back, so. Yeah. We’re burying it.”

“Steve. Stevie. Steven.”

“Steve, my name is Steve. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“ _Steve._ Don’t you have a drive for knowledge? Don’t you wanna know? This is a once in a lifetime chance!”

Steve pushes his ray-bans down his nose and gives Dustin a very specific deadpan look over the rim. 

“Nope.”

Dustin throws his hands up and then crosses them. He’s pouting. Glaring out the window. Steve almost feels a little bad. Actually, he does feel bad. Without looking, he pushes Dustin’s hat over his face, making him squeak out a ‘ _hey_ ’ and getting a laugh out of Will.

“I think we should bury it outside of town.” Will says then pokes Steve’s shoulder and he doesn’t even have to ask before Steve is reaching over and rewinding.

“Oh my god, can we _please_ listen to something else?” Dustin says. Fixes his hair in the reflection of the window then turns around in his seat to glare at Will. 

Will makes a face, offended to the bone and Steve can’t not laugh at that look.

“This is a _good_ song.” Will says.

“Yeah, the first fifty times.”

“We’ve listened to it three times. Not _fifty_.”

“We listened to it _five_ times here and then, like, a billion times everyday since you got that tape.”

“If you had better taste in music—“

“—are you implying I have bad taste?”

“If you don’t like Bonnie Tyler, then I think you know the answer to that.”

“Guys? Guys. Shut the hell up.” Steve says. Snaps his fingers because he can’t clap at them to get their attention. “Will? Good idea on the whole out of town thing. Maybe if we’re lucky it’ll just disappear once we’re outta Hawkins. Poof! It’s gone and we can go get ice-cream.”

“ _Steve_. My dude. My liege.” Dustin says sadly. “That’s not a thing.”

“Weirder things’ve happened.” Will says.

“Yeah, but matter can’t just _disappear_. That’s like against every rule.”

“You don’t _know_ , though.” Steve says. “The Upside Down is all—funky and shit. Maybe it’s different.”

“Okay, but we’re not _in_ the Upside Down now. So. No, it’s not gonna magically evaporate from inside the trunk after we cross some invisible line.”

“But it could.” 

“No. It. Can’t.” Dustin says and his cheeks are getting that frustrated pink tinge. Steve bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from outright laughing. “There’s a better chance of it coming back to life.”

“But what if it can and it does?”

“Oh my god.”

Will pokes Steve’s shoulder. “I missed the beginning, can you—“

“No problem, mi amigo.” Steve rewinds and as soon as Bonnie is singing and Will starts his own quiet duet, Steve turns the volume up and joins in, belts out as loud as he can, “ _where have all the good men gone/and where are all the gods?_ ”

Steve meets Will’s eyes in the mirror. They’re both grinning and Will raises his voice, meets Steve’s as they sing with Bonnie about that good ole boy, Ren MacCormack.

Dustin groans, sinking into his seat. Covers his ears with his hands.

 

— 

 

They’re fifteen minutes outside of Hawkins, down a random winding road in the forest Dustin spotted on the map when they—after a quick voting session—decide it’s time to pull over. 

Dustin is holding Steve’s bat and the map. He leads the way, searching for a good spot. Will’s got the shovel, reluctant to touch the demodog or the tarp covering it. Steve’s carrying the monster and is breathing solely through his mouth. The demodog had begun to thaw in the trunk and is releasing a stink he is never going to forget. It’s a stink that sticks. A stink he’s going to grow old with.

It’s the first time Steve has been back in the forest since his and Billy’s trip to the quarry. The silence is less deafening. Not quite as eerie. He feels almost okay with Dustin having the bat. 

Sunlight sprinkles through the dense trees, highlighting the yellows and the oranges all over the forest floor. Maybe because it’s outside of Hawkins and whatever weirdness seems to gravitate there, but it’s different out here. Not as scary. No underlying feeling of ‘ _something bad is going to happen_.’ Having Dustin and Will with him, two people who know exactly what kind of shit that exists in the world who are kids and need Steve to not have his tail between his legs, seems to help too.

“Here!” Dustin says up ahead. Using the bat as a sort of flag to claim the spot, the nails digging into the ground. Steve throws the demodog to the ground wanting to get away from it.

One of its mouth-flaps lolls out of the tarp. Steve clears his throat to fight off gagging. 

Dustin marks the spot on the map with a small skull drawn in a red marker. 

Steve gets the shovel from Will and digs the hole until he’s knee deep. His jacket is off and tossed to the side. He’s sweating. Thinks about the snickerdoodles waiting for him. Tries to not think about school tomorrow. About Jonathan. Or Nancy. 

Or Billy.

Will is drawing something in the dirt with a twig—it looks like a deformed dick from where Steve is. Dustin has unraveled the tarp and is poking at the demodog, opening its mouth and even touching its teeth with a stick, which is Steve’s cue to heave himself out of the hole.

There’s some discussion over whether it should be six feet deep—the standard grave depth—Steve shoots that argument dead when he hands the shovel to Dustin for his turn and the kid realizes how damn hard the forest floor is in the winter. 

It doesn’t take much time, though Steve hasn’t ever had to bury anything in the woods before, but he’d expected it to take longer to get the hole big enough. Together with Dustin, they carry the demodog over, holding the edges of the tarp, and drop it inside. 

The _thud_ when it hits the ground is _loud_ and final. An ending.

Will is quick to pick up the shovel and start covering it with dirt. Steve and Dustin help out using their feet to shove the pile of dirt into the hole. 

Will slams the flat side of the shovel on top, compressing it, but then Will keeps hitting the ground. Again and again. His eyes have a faraway look, welling up in the corners. He pale and breathing hard. Dustin and Steve share a worried look before Steve gently puts a hand over both of Will’s to stop him and slowly pries the shovel out of his hands.

Will’s trembling afterwards. Staring at the newly covered hole. Dustin squeezes his shoulder, grinning widely with his bright new teeth, pulling Will out of his trance and calming him down. Even gets a small smile out of him.

Steve makes sure to not look at Will directly, avoiding making whatever just happened into a thing— _act casual and smooth like I don’t give two shits, like Hargrove_ —and says, “I’m fucking starving for one of those snickerdoodles, man.” 

 

—

 

They eat their lunches in the car, driving back to Hawkins with one less monster to think about, blasting Will’s favorite song the whole way. Steve inhales his sandwich—the crust has been cut off and Claudia really is amazing and Dustin is the best co-pilot, holding Steve’s juice box and directing its straw for him to drink, even rewinds the tape without a poke in the shoulder or complaining once. 

Steve has an awakening—the kind his mom is always going on about when she comes back from her ‘ _retreats_ ’—when he takes that first bite into a homemade snickerdoodle. Nearly has to pull over to just experience it.

Mile by mile, Will calms down and, glancing at him in the rearview mirror, Steve is relieved to see him bob his head to the music with a bit more color in his cheeks. 

But he’s not singing. He’s only pinching off pieces of his sandwich, staring out the window. There’s a knot in Steve’s stomach that just ties itself again into a bigger, heavier, more complicated knot and from the way Dustin keeps trying to get Will to talk and not getting much of a response beyond a quiet hum, Dustin’s got that knot too.

“Ice-cream,” Dustin snaps his fingers. “We gotta celebrate with some ice-cream. That’s what heroes do.”

“That is definitely something that happens, yep.” Steve says.

“It’s like the reward at the end of a quest. Like finding the Holy Grail, except this—“ Dustin gestures with his hands, building up this grand scaled reward, “—is a ginormous bowl of delicious chocolate and mint ice-cream. _With sprinkles_.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “Actually, a double-fudge sundae with extra whipped cream sounds perfect right now.”

“Yeah, yeah! So? You in, Will?” Dustin is twisting around in his seat again

It’s a long moment with nothing but Bonnie Tyler filling in the silence, eventually Steve hears a quiet ‘ _okay_ ’ from the backseat and Dustin gives Steve two thumbs up, carefully out of sight. 

It’s a win and Steve is gonna take it.

 

—

 

Micky O’s Pharmacy is on Main Street between the Ole Mill Diner and the movie theater. It has the best ice-cream in the entire state. It’s good shit. Steve once spent a week eating nothing but Micky O’s ice-cream. Best week of his life, except for all the stomach aches.

The street is fairly busy, finding a parking spot is a pain, and it takes Steve absolutely no time at all to zero in on Billy’s blue camaro—the only camaro in the entire town— parked mid-point between the diner and the pharmacy, right in the shade. Windows rolled down. Seat pushed back. There’s no doubt in Steve’s mind—Billy is definitely in the car, _right fucking there_.

“Shit.” Dustin hisses, lowering himself in his seat and peaking out the window, which gets Will’s attention and Will follows his lead, hunkering down in his seat. “Okay, new plan. We go back to my house, my mom just bought some vanilla ice-cream and we can make our own sundaes and watch _The Hobbit_.”

“Dude, no. Chill. It’s fine. He’s not gonna do anything, remember?” Steve says, not taking his eyes off of the camaro.

“But you can’t just swing your bat around out here and, like, no offense or anything, but you didn’t exactly win last time.”

Steve turns to look at Dustin and points at him.

“Okay, no. _No_. He smashed a plate over my head. If it was in a fair fight, I think, you know, I’d do okay? I could win.” 

Billy is a goddamn bull, thick muscles and flouncy hair and long lashes and his punches rattled Steve’s bones on impact, but Steve can throw down too. So he may not _win_ , but he’s no pansy.

“I’m not a damn pansy.” Steve says.

Dustin pats his arm. 

“Hey, hey. Buddy. I didn’t say you were. Just that—okay so, you’re Han Solo and he’s Darth Vader. You’re good—like really, totally awesome—but he’s worse than you are good, get it?”

Steve shakes his head, getting rid of the irritation and the _he thinks I’m awesome_ and looks back to the camaro. It’s still there. Billy is still _there_.

“It’ll be fine. If he tries something I can handle him, trust me.” Steve says.

He gets out of the car before his confidence can waver. Ducks to check his appearance in the reflection of his car door—he looks rough. His bruises have yellowed and faded some. He’s got heavy bags under his eyes. Grimy, like he’s rolled around in the forest and is sticky with dirt and sweat. Which he did. He sniffs his arm and wishes he knew if he smelled, if the demodog got its stink on him too. 

He manhandles his hair, trying to get it to look vaguely like his old self that didn’t have these problems. Ignores how Dustin and Will are looking at him clearly confused.

“You guys go ahead. Order whatever you want, okay? I’ll be in in a minute.” Dustin looks like he doesn’t want to leave Steve out here alone in the wilderness with Billy only a few feet away and, Steve understands that sentiment and appreciates it—Dustin is really too good of a kid sometimes.

Steve walks them to the pharmacy, not even sneaking a peak at the camaro. Once Dustin and Will are inside and the door jingles shut, Steve turns around—there’s Billy and he’s alone and there’s no Tommy or random-girl hanging off of him—and walks right up to the camaro, to Billy. Leans his hip against the door. Crosses his arms. 

Waits.

It’s dumb. It’s so damn _dumb_ how excited Steve was at seeing just the top of Billy’s head. It’s even dumber because Dustin and Will are with him—and Will may not have _seen_ what happened in his house, but he knows and to the two of them Billy is just as bad as a monster from the Upside Down and they aren’t exactly _wrong_. 

And it’s so fucking _stupid_ how put out he feels trying to catch Billy’s eyes only to just see the cold reflection of his sun glasses, to share some _look_ with him acknowledging what they did and what happened and how Steve hadn’t just made the whole thing up in his head, and for Billy to just keep ignoring him. 

It’s been two weeks of getting the cold shoulder and outright being treated like he doesn’t exist.

Billy’s fists—the outline of his hard-on in those ridiculous jeans, the way his lips made that sweet red and bloodied blue circle around the joint— _something_ has been pummeled into Steve and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about and _noticing_ Billy. 

And Billy doesn’t even look at him and—well, fuck him. Fuck Billy. Bastard Billy. Bitch Billy. Butt-face Billy with his stupid big head who won’t take his aviators off _and fucking look at Steve_. Any reaction is better than _this_. Steve can handle a brawl, but he can’t handle being ignored by the one person who’s never ignored him once since moving here and deciding fucking with Steve is his life’s purpose. 

The street is busy, there are people walking by on the sidewalk giving them a passing look, a raised eyebrow, a little confused, but no one lingers. Just two kids not talking to each other. Normal shit in Hawkins. He knows if he looks behind him he’ll see Dustin and Will watching, probably pressing their faces against the glass, waiting for the shoe to drop and for Billy to go on a rampage.

Steve bends down, sticks his head through the window and gets his face close enough to Billy’s to feel his breath, except Billy isn’t breathing and his eyes are finally _open_ and looking back at Steve and Steve _needs_ to reach out and take those dumb aviators off. 

Steve doesn’t back away. He waits. And waits. Feels like an idiot hanging out of another guy’s car like this and keeps on waiting. Billy’s chewing on a toothpick. He’s wearing a thermal shirt under that denim jacket. Steve doesn’t let himself look any lower. He can smell Billy’s cologne. The nicotine sticking to the upholstery. The greasy air wafting out of the diner. 

Makes sure to keep his face blank. 

“Dreaming of me, Hargrove?”

“Always, _Princess_ ,” Billy’s lips start to crack and pull back into a sneer. “You got something to say to me or do you just get off on me kicking your ass?”

“Oh, no. Just checking to make sure I exist is all.” Steve says and pulls back, out of the car and away from Billy who follows and leans out the window, eyebrows wrinkled up, toothpick dangling from his open lips.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Steve shrugs. “Means what it means. Now I know I haven’t turned invisible. It’s a relief.”

Billy pushes his aviators and glares at him, toothpick snapping between his grinding teeth. He spits the pieces out onto the street by Steve’s feet.

“You always this needy, Harrington?

“Yep.” 

“Well, fuck off. I’m busy.”

“You were pretending to sleep, so, no. You weren’t.”

“Gonna keep me company? Shit, knew you were the easy type.” Billy leans back into his seat, puts his aviators back on, legs stretched out and hands folded over his stomach, relaxed. Sliding from irritation to smug from one beat to the next, not lingering over one or the other. It’s hard to keep up.

“What the hell you doing out here anyways?” 

“None of your business. Fuck off.” Billy says and shuts his eyes. Steve bristles. 

The thing is, acting cool and like he doesn’t care are strategies Steve has used since junior high to get girls. It’s worked. It’s fool proof. Steve has done it countless times since he figured out playing it like he didn’t give two shits is what gets girls to give him a second look. 

Being on the receiving end of it though, with Billy not looking at him and acting like Steve isn’t even worth the usual berating—hell, Steve can’t stand it and it’s fucking annoying that he can’t stand it.

Steve has spent a good portion of his life being ignored. He’s good at it. It’s a skill, but having Billy not even look at him isn’t something he wants to learn to be good at.

Steve goes back to his car, rummages for the bagged lunch Claudia had given him, pulls out the last of the snickerdoodles that he was saving for later and weighs it in his hand. He’s gone crazy. Clearly.

Steve walks back to the camaro, to Billy and thinks Billy is probably watching him in one of the car’s mirror, but his eyes are shut, pretending to sleep. Steve tosses the cookie onto his chest. Billy’s eyes fly open. He carefully picks the cookie up like he’s never seen a cookie in his life, looks to Steve.

“Dipshit.” Steve says. 

Billy takes a bite of the snickerdoodle and says with a mouthful and sugar on his lips, “fuckwad.”

Steve pats the roof of the camaro, smiles like the pleasant and well behaved boy his parents raised him to be, and walks into the pharmacy.

 

—

 

“Did you just give one of my mother’s homemade snickerdoodle cookies that she spent all of last night baking to Billy freaking Hargrove?” Dustin says over a quadruple fudge sundae that’s nearly as tall as he is sitting in the booth. Steve slides into the seat next to him, Will is across from them working on his own, much smaller, but covered in a thick layer of sprinkles, sundae.

“It’s called making a peace offering.” Steve says. Touches his cheeks. He’s warm. He’s _blushing_. What is wrong with him. _Gross_. He refuses to look back through the window to see if Billy threw the rest of it out or ate it or if he’s looking at Steve _right now_. “And, yeah. I did.”

Dustin stares at him, mouth hanging open. There’s fudge on his upper lip. And bottom lip. And his chin.

“The guy would’ve killed you—us—what—how—I don’t— _What in the hell, Steve?_ “ Dustin says, splutters and nearly flings his spoon at Will’s head, but Will catches it just in time, barely looking up from his own sundae. Steve gives him an impressed look. 

“Nice catch.” Steve says. “You ever play baseball?”

Will blushes, ducks his head. He puts Dustin’s spoon back into Dustin’s sundae, it slowly slips and becomes completely swallowed up by the melting ice-cream.

“I’m not really a—I don’t play sports.” Will laughs.

“You’d be good at it with those reflexes. I have some spare baseballs if you ever wanna try it out. A bat and a glove too—a non-nail bat, I mean.”

“I guess I could. Maybe.” Will says and smiles. “Thank you.“

“Excuse me,” Dustin says, “can we get back to you being _nice_ to that psycho jerk face?”

“Look,” Steve says and then pauses because he doesn’t quite know what exactly he should say and stumbles on his words for a moment. “He’s not one of the—the,” Steve lowers his voice to a whisper, “ _demogorgon-things_ , okay? We can’t just bury him or shove him back into the you-know-where. He’s not going to just go away or stop being a dick because we threaten him.”

“So you gave him a cookie?” Dustin says. Disgusted. Horrified. “Are you secretly friends—is that why you were hanging out with him? That’s called being a _traitor_ to the party.”

“You were hanging out with Billy?” Will says.

“Seriously? A _traitor_?” Steve says.

“If you’re friends with the Terminator than _yeah_.”

“Hanging out is a strong word—two words—and we are not _friends_ , okay. We’re just,” Steve waves his hands around, then sighs, deflates into his seat, “I don’t know, okay? He helped me out with my car and was being _nice_ and it’s weird. He’s weird. I’m weird. This whole fucking thing is fucking weird. _Fuck_.”

Steve tugs at his hair. Pulls it back until it hurts. 

No one says anything for a little while. Will continues to push his sundae around the bowl. Dustin eats his aggressively. Steve orders a chocolate shake that he doesn’t really want, but he sips at it, while Dustin calms down.

When his sundae is gone and his bowl is practically licked clean, Dustin clears his throat, getting Steve’s attention.

“So a truce? With Billy? Psycho Billy?”

“He probably won’t like that nickname.”

“Boo-hoo. It’s better than _The-Guy-Who-Almost-Murdered-A-Bunch-of-Kids Billy.”_

“Okay, yeah. Good point.” Steve says. “Is a truce so bad?”

“We gotta run this by the rest of the party first. Especially Lucas.” Dustin’s mouth twists. “I guess it’s better than him going into a barbarian rage on us again.”

“O-okay?”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Is it something from _The Star Wars_ again? Some sort of nerd shit?”

Will snorts into his ice cream. Dustin shares a look with him and then they’re both laughing at Steve, mouths covered in fudge. 

“Steve, my dude. _Buddy_.” Dustin says and pulls Steve’s shake towards himself. Takes a drink from it. “It’s the _best_ nerd shit and it’s gonna blow your freaking mind.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To keep with the theme of naming stories with song lyrics because I'm awful with titles, but not with the theme of using only lyrics from Heart songs (which had been the original plan), the title is from "Sonsick" by San Fermin (as I thought it felt like a good Steve sentiment).
> 
> If you want to chat about this story or about Billy and Steve styling each other's hair, I'm on [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com).
> 
> I made up a few Hawkins related locations--the pharmacy, where the theater is, Billy's locker, etc. As for any inaccuracies, just know I tried my best.


	2. Chapter 2

The roads are covered in mud and every pothole has turned into a miniature lake impossible to drive around overnight. Steve chances it when the rain stops and the sun pops out for a brief appearance and spends the entire morning doing his hair—to what would have been beautiful perfection if it wasn’t for the mess that is his face—only for it to start raining again on the drive to school. Big, fat dollops making his windshield wipers practically useless. 

There’s only so much water Farrah Fawcett can outlast and during the run from his car to the school awning his hair has been drenched, flat and dripping in his face. His binder and notes are the only thing on him that’s close to being dry. Why did he bother coming to school today—any day, really. Is there a point? He doesn’t know.

Steve wipes his watch on his jeans and checks it. Barely seven minutes until the bell rings. Not enough time, but he’s rolled with less and nearly walks right into Tommy. 

He’s soaked and his nose is bright red. He’s got that stubborn look like he wants to punch Steve. 

“Hey—“ Tommy says. Reaches for his arm.

“Not happening.” 

Steve pivots on his heel, does a full turn avoiding Tommy completely, hurries into the boy’s bathroom—it’s empty, everyone else is in class so he sets his binder down on the neighboring sink, pulls out a comb from his jacket and gets to work redoing his hair the best he can. Wishes he had the confidence that would let him store a can of his hairspray in his locker. He may not care what the rest of the school has to say about him at this point, but there’s a line and that’s his. 

Except Billy brings his hairspray, but his isn’t embarrassing. It’s not as good. But it also doesn’t have _Farrah Fawcett_ on the can and Steve knows he will _die_ is Billy finds out. His hair will look amazing, but he will fall over dead while Billy cackles over him.

“Dude, I just wanted to talk.” Tommy says. He reappears over Steve’s shoulder in the mirror, giving Steve a start. An annoying ghost Steve really doesn’t have the time for. Or wants to see in general. “You look less shitty.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“Billy really fucked you up, huh?”

Steve ignores him and pushes the comb too hard, catching on a tangle. _Ow_. 

“So.” Tommy says, draws the word out, constipated trying to be subtle—something Tommy has never managed to do well or at all. Steve hurries up, but his hair is too wet for anything to stick like it should. It’s neat, but flat and the back is still dripping down his shirt. _Why do I bother trying at all?_

“You and Billy? You guys friends or something now?”

Steve makes a face at that— _two weeks of nothing and this is Tommy’s opening line?_

“You’re the one hanging out with him.” Steve says.

“Yeah, but that’s only because you got all fucking lame when you were with Miss Perfect.”

“Nope.” Steve shoves his comb back into its pocket. Grabs his binder. Gives Tommy a hard look. “I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to have time for this. _Don’t talk about her_.”

“But you gotta think it’s weird though, right?”

“What? _Nancy?_ I don’t even want to know what you’re—“

“No, dude, _Billy_.”

“Billy’s an asshole.”

“ _No_.” Tommy glares at him more. “How Billy’s so buddy-buddy with you all the sudden?”

Steve laughs. “Because we’re totally best friends.”

“Okay, no. _Whatever_. Jeez, just listen,” Tommy says, “a while back, I sat on his camaro—just, like, one time—and he nearly punched my teeth in and I hang with the guy every day, but you—you’re all over it and what? He just let’s you? _It’s fucking weird, man_.”

Tommy is a dog with a bone and Steve’s stomach plummets, queasiness settling in. Tommy must’ve seen them outside the pharmacy. Tommy isn’t going to let this go easily. 

“ _I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Tommy_.” Steve wipes his hands on his jeans, crosses his arms and uncrosses them. _Fuck._ He’s bad at this too. “You’re not making sense and I literally don’t care. I really don’t.”

The bell rings. Steve is going to be late to his class. Tommy is still _looking_ at him like he’s supposed to agree and then they’ll be friends again and everything will be back to _normal_. Steve will go with a new chick every month before getting dumped because he made eyes at another girl. Tommy and Carol will poke and laugh at him and Steve will laugh too.

It’s not what Steve wants, though. He isn’t sure what that is, but it doesn’t involve Tommy.

He takes a breath. Reminds himself that Tommy is full of shit. Not one person in Hawkins thinks otherwise.

“ _This_ is weird.” Steve says as evenly as he can. “Seriously. Whatever you’re trying to—whatever you’re doing right now, Tommy, just, leave me out of it.” 

He opens the door, steps through it and stops. “And sorry about the whole thing with you and Carol. At the bleachers. It wasn’t cool.”

Steve half-runs to his class, more to avoid Tommy catching up to him than any rush to get there earlier. Slows down when he sees Nancy waiting outside his classroom. 

She should be on the other side of the school in AP Physics. She’s looking right at him—wearing that worried wrinkle between her eyebrows Steve had always thought was so cute—and Steve’s plan to turn on his heel and just walk away, go home and sleep goes to hell.

“Can we talk?” Nancy says.

 

—

 

The problem is Steve likes Nancy—he loves her too, but that part’s been bruised up worse than his face ever was—it’s gone into hiding and only comes out to remind him it still exists and it still _hurts_ every damn hour of the day when he’s just starting to think maybe he’s okay.

But he still _likes_ Nancy. 

She’s smart. She’s funny. She gives a shit where Steve never thought to. She’s a good person and that bruised pain doesn’t let him forget that Steve _isn’t_. Not compared to her.

They used to talk on the phone every single night and now he can’t stand to hear her voice. The conversation blurs. He doesn’t say much. Nancy does the talking. Steve nods. He doesn’t look at her too much and when he does he looks at her hands, delicate and small clutching at her physics book and her binder.

Her persistence—that he loved and loves—keeps Steve from going to class until he promises to meet her for lunch, outside in that narrow alley by the gym.

Her eyes have gone glassy and he thinks _good_ and he thinks _you’re the one who did this why do you get to look sad?_ and he thinks _it’s okay, really, it’s okay_ and says _yeah, sure. I’ll see you at lunch_ and doesn’t mean it. Imagines Nancy looking to Jonathan for comfort when he doesn’t show up.

_it’s okay, I’m bullshit, why are you surprised?_

 

—

 

Mrs. Cobb has been teaching English at Hawkins High since, Steve thinks, before Hawkins High was built. She’s _old_ and taller than Steve and every day she comes into class with new flowers pinned in her nearly knee-length grey hair. She isn’t the most difficult English teacher Steve has ever had, but she isn’t the easiest either.

What makes her stand out, though, is that she’s kind. _Actually_ kind. She genuinely cares and has never looked at Steve like he’s a failure or that he’s _dumb_. She’s never said a negative thing about anyone. She bakes cookies over the weekend and brings them in for her classes every Monday to ‘ _start the week off with a smile_.’ 

She’s one of the few teachers Steve has ever liked and he’d been so pumped when he read his schedule for the semester and found out he had her for English, fourth period.

If he makes it, Steve is going to be in his seventies sitting out on his porch with a lit cigar in his mouth just like his grandpa used to, remembering how nice that Mrs. Cobb had been.

The bell for lunch had rung. All the other students in his class had been allowed to leave _except_ for Steve.

Mrs. Cobb stands by her desk, looking down at him with concern all over her face and it doesn’t twist Steve’s insides at all.

“How are you feeling today, Mr. Harrington?”

“Oh. You know, I’m alive, so. Good? I guess?” Steve says. Shrugs. 

Mrs. Cobb nods. Understandable as always. 

“Your face is looking much better. You’ve healed wonderfully.”

“Thanks.” Steve rubs the back of his neck, flushes warmly. He can feel his impending doom approaching. There’s only two reasons for a teacher to hold a student back from class and Steve doubts Mrs. Cobb is about to make a move on him.

She nods her head again. Her long hair swaying with her, falling over her narrow shoulders. He thinks the yellow flowers in her hair are daisies. 

For a long moment she says nothing and Steve says nothing. He stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, singing in his head _so let's sink another drink/cause it'll give me time to think/if I had the chance I'd ask the world to dance/and I'll be dancin' with myself_. Looks over her shoulder at her desk then the chalkboard then the door that’s closed and miles away.

Mrs. Cobb clears her throat. Steve winces.

“You’re failing.” She says. Her eyes are big and green and the saddest pair of eyes Steve has ever seen on a teacher. The guilt is sudden and _heavy_. “I bring this up because I’m concerned. _Frightfully_ concerned. You’re up for graduation this year and with your current academic standing and with your last assignment I’m unsure if you’ll be able to walk with the rest of your classmates or if you’ll be able to, well, graduate at all.”

She sighs, hands on her cheeks mortified. Turns around and shuffles through her messy desk until she finds, Steve recognizes his handwriting, his essay from last week and hands it to him. He’d been wondering where his had gone and if he had even turned it in.

There’s an ‘ _F_ ’ in red ink on the header next to his name. 

“It’s only November, I mean. I still have time?” Steve says.

“You do, you certainly do, Mr. Harrington. That’s why I’m bringing this up now, so you’ll have this time to improve. To find focus. I’d like for you to rewrite this and turn it in by Friday.” Mrs. Cobb says. Hands clasped together. “I’ve spoken to my best student—truly, he’s an artist of the English language, the best I’ve seen in _decades_ , Mr. Harrington—and he’s agreed to tutor—“

“I don’t need a tutor,” Steve cuts in before she can finish her thought. The idea of showing his work to anyone—christ, it makes him cringe. Makes his stomach clench up and go green. Nancy had been bad enough. Repeating that conversation—good god, he just _can’t_. 

“Thank you, but, yeah. No. I’ve got it. I don’t need a tutor. I’ve just been distracted lately. You know,” Steve grasps for something to say, but can’t find it, knows _there are monsters and the world almost ended and essays don’t matter_ wouldn’t go down well. “You know how _it_ gets.”

“Mr. Harrington. _Steve_. This isn’t,” She says and pauses, adjusts a flower in her hair, “your work has declined _considerably_ since the start of the year and, well, English is far from your best subject. Having a tutor, someone around your age to talk to might be more _effective_. Comfortable. But,” she puts her hands up, “it’s your decision. You are your own person. I respect that, but either way,” she taps the essay in Steve’s hands, “due on Friday.”

 

—

 

At lunch Steve hides away in the library, skips over the cafeteria completely—he’s not hungry and his list of people to avoid is getting _long_ and Nancy is right at the top as number one.

Through the small window of the library door, Steve sees Billy leaning on the front counter, unaffected by the rain. Looking out of place with his long hair and earring and triple denim outfit, though he’s doesn’t look like he’d fit in anywhere. Maybe in California. Maybe not there either. Chin held up by his hand, hips cocked and flirty—Steve’s eyes follow the seams of Billy’s jeans, how they mold around the curve of his ass and his thick thighs. They’re skin tight and Steve lingers outside the door _looking_ long enough for the hallways to quiet and for him to be one of the few people straggling behind.

Billy keeps talking to the librarian—Miss Schmidt—with the sweet _Billy Hargrove Smile_ with dimples and fluttering lashes. Steve scrunches his nose, his stomach unsettled and _weird_. 

He eases the door to the library open, quickly ducks behind the nearest row of books and takes the long way through the aisles to the back, to the furthest table from the door that’s hidden away by the shelves. It’s been carved away by bored students since the library had been built—Steve has added his own badly carved dicks himself when he’s in the mood. 

He sets his binder on the table, claiming it for himself, though there are very few people in the library at lunch, so it isn’t exactly a fight. Goes to find his dictionary-pillow. It’s thick and has a fabric-like cover that isn’t too uncomfortable to lay his head on for thirty minutes.

It’s not exactly a nap. He doesn’t sleep. He closes his eyes. Let’s his brain turn off. Doesn’t think of anything. If he does, he avoids anything heavier than _could I pull off Billy Idol’s hair?_

The quiet of the library sinks into him—Steve has no idea if it’s always been like this. Before his and Billy’s fight and the demodogs and _the end of the world_ , he’d avoided the library completely, only coming when Nancy dragged him along. 

If it wasn’t for his dad, he would avoid school too. 

But he’s here and the dictionary is comfortable enough to lay his healing cheek on without his jaw hurting and even the chair isn’t making his back bark. So Steve settles in. Let’s himself drift a little closer to sleep. If he misses a class or two or the rest of the day, what did it _really_ matter?

Something smacks into the back of his head. 

Billy is standing behind him holding a hardback book, _The Sirens of Titan_ , giving him a _look_ that Steve quietly lets himself be happy about receiving. Billy had seen him, found him, and now is _looking_ at him without Steve having to do a thing, which is as nice a feeling as it is confusing because it’s _familiar_. 

“ _Ow._ ” Steve says without any heat, covers where Billy had hit him with his hand.

Billy slides the book onto the table, drops into the chair next to Steve without asking, kicks his boots up and within seconds owns the table and the whole damn library while looking more comfortable than Steve has ever been in his entire life.

“You gonna play today or what, shortdick?”

“Normal people have conversations, like, ‘ _Hi, what’s up? Oh nothing much, you know, my bones are still healing from having my face smashed in. What about you? You look less like shit today_.’ Stuff like that, in case you ever wanna give it a shot.” Steve says. 

Billy just stares him down, determined to get an answer out of Steve. Back in the _Hargrove Spotlight_ Steve shifts in his seat and wonders why the hell he wanted this again as he looks up the thick line of Billy’s legs to his belt buckle that shines in the crappy fluorescent lighting to the hard set of his jaw.

Steve’s pulse picks up and he wipes his palms on his jeans. Tommy is a freckled face dickhead who gave Steve chickenpox when they were nine and who’s only good at getting booze and weed and can’t make a three-pointer if his life depended on it and _he was right_. 

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Steve says. Feels an itch on the back of his neck. _Tommy is a mouth breathing moron_. “I was thinking of quitting.”

Billy cocks his head. “Basketball?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna drop out of,” Billy says, “basketball?”

“That is what I said, yeah.”

Billy rolls his eyes, makes a performance out of it. “Well that’s shit, Harrington. Stop being such a bitch just ‘cause you got a little boo-boo.”

“Not little, like at all—and no, don’t you even— _don’t smile_. It’s not a compliment.” Steve says and Billy is smiling anyways, tongue between his teeth and there’s a part of Steve that wants to smile right back, can feel it tugging at his lips—the asshole. “I’m sorry if my head isn’t as thick as yours. I kinda needed a second to not feel like crap.”

“Two fucking weeks.” Billy says, holding both his middle fingers up. “My face was just as fucked up as yours, but I didn’t need some bullshit break. It’s boring as balls now. You’re the only one half as good as me and now it’s just a bunch of lazy fucks who dribble a ball like they’ve never had their dicks sucked and you’re telling me you want to _quit_? That’s. Shit.”

Steve spends a quick second trying to figure out how a blowjob makes you better at basketball then slides into how he and Billy are practically _alone together_ in the library and how Billy’s split lip has healed and how Steve’s has too.

So he clears his throat. Finds some purchase by flipping open the nice, friendly, not-Billy and not-Billy’s-lips dictionary then closes it and lays his head down. Thinks instead of Nancy waiting for him and hopes she gives up on any decency she thinks he has and gets some lunch.

Billy is looking at him oddly, like he’s doing something strange, but Billy probably has a low, normal-person standard for _strange_. 

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Billy says.

“I think,” Steve pauses to consider how many things are wrong with him, “life? Yeah, life. Or me. Or life. I mean, probably me. Hell, I don’t know.”

 

—

 

Steve knows what an awkward silence is and it isn’t this.

Conversation hasn’t really been a _thing_ that happens between him and Billy outside of weed and concussions. There were the snide comments in the locker room. The asshole jabs Billy threw at him and Steve lobbed back with a limp wrist on the court, too distracted with playing to trash talk properly. No actual conversations though. Small talk wasn’t a _thing_ between them either. Every word they shared had been intense and meant to stick between the ribs.

And now it isn’t much different. Not really. It’s less intense. Steve isn’t pouring sweat trying to keep up. Billy hasn’t called him a _bitch_ in a ‘ _I mean it_ ’ way yet. 

Steve’s half-way collapsed on the table. Billy is just sitting there, just hanging out.

This is what a snickerdoodle truce will get you apparently.

Steve can hear Billy breathing and starts to actively listen to Billy breathe and the slight creaking of his chair as he shifts. It’s irritating. _It is_. Steve tries to focus on himself, but he’s incredibly aware that Billy is right next to him. Watching him. His shoulders are already bunching up when he hears paper shuffling and when Steve turns to look, Billy has got Steve’s binder open and is looking at Steve’s newest failure.

Steve reaches out, tries to snatch it back, but Billy must have expected his reaction because he’s stretching his arm away and out reach, the only way for Steve to get it is to lean over him in a way that would give Tommy all the ammo he needs.

Steve slumps back into his chair. Billy grins triumphantly and props Steve’s essay up like he’s reading the morning newspaper and Steve’s face is already going hot, which is just _unfair_.

“Holy shit.” Billy says way too loudly, flipping to the next page. 

“Like you can do any better.” Steve says as the last bit of his pride makes an attempt to save itself.

“I got a 4.0 GPA, motherfucker.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “That’s not true. That’s not even possible.”

Billy grins at him over the essay. It’s proud. Smug. It’s true and this is the most _Billy Hargrove_ look Billy has ever leveled at him.

“This is honestly worse than when you punched me in the face.” Steve groans into his hands. Miss Schmidt is going to kick them out at this point. 

“Pussy.” 

A page is turned. Billy is—for some reason that must have to do with the Upside-Down—still reading his essay. Steve squirms in his seat, waiting, waiting, waiting for Billy to say _something_ , but he doesn’t and Steve _snaps_.

“I know, okay. _I know_ it’s bad and I really, really don’t need you to tell me.” He says, regretting not shoving his binder into his locker. Peeks through his fingers at Billy who keeps flicking his gaze between the paper and Steve.

“There are so many question marks. Fuck, man. This entire page is just red ink.”

“Oh god.” Steve’s sigh is weak and full of embarrassment. _What is happening_ anymore. He has no idea.

“Why the hell did you connect the French Revolution with _The Great Gatsby_?”

“I don’t—“ Steve cracks, it’s Billy’s genuine confusion that gets him. He starts to laugh, a little breathless chuckle. “I’m not even sure I know what the French Revolution is.”

Billy slaps the paper down on the table. “Fuck, Harrington.”

“Right? It’s so bad.”

“The worst thing I’ve ever read.”

“I’m almost proud how awful it is, like, it’s a whole new level of horse shit undiscovered by man.” Steve says and Billy throws his head back and laughs, not caring that they’re voices are carrying, his hands settling on his stomach. They fucking _giggle_ in the back of the library, smiling at each other—the way Billy is looking at him with something close to warmth, making Steve’s blush—those terrible fluttery feelings—settle deeper into his skin.

Steve looks away first. Swallows around the _I don’t know what to do about any of whatever this is_ lump that’s been in his throat since the bleachers.

Steve stretches, hooks his paper with the tips of his fingers and pulls it back across the table. 

“Cobb says I can rewrite it.” Steve says and feels like an idiot. Billy doesn’t care about his grades. Likely doesn’t care about Steve, not really.

“Not that it’ll change anything. I mean, there’s no point. I’m clearly a fucking idiot” Steve chuckles. Stares at the ‘ _F_ ’ that is one of _so many_ in his life and puts his essay back into his binder, glances back up to see an odd expression cross Billy’s face.

“You know what your problem is, Harrington?” Billy says. He takes his feet off of the table, the loud thud of his boots hitting the floor vibrates through him and Steve feels the shift in Billy then. Sees it when he looks up at him. The warmth gone with the smile. “You don’t give a shit. You’re a rich kid who doesn’t need to be fucking motivated because you got your whole life lined up for you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hargrove—“

Miss Schmidt appears around the shelves and shushes them with a finger to her lips and a very stern look which melts as Billy croons, ‘ _sure thing, ma’am_ ’ like he means it and gives her that same sweet smile from before that makes Steve need to stare down at the table and pick at the corner of his binder or _else_. 

Another shift. Steve can’t keep up so he sticks to what he knows. _Billy is an asshole_.

“Do you flirt with literally everyone?” Steve says. 

“Is King Steve jealous?”

That isn’t quite it. Billy is a tornado of charm that doesn’t seem to care who he sucks in and who he completely obliterates. Just passes by, does his thing, and moves on. Steve can’t help but think he’s just like Miss Schmidt and every other girl in this school. 

“No.” Steve says. He tugs at his hair, combs it back with his fingers. It’s dry now, but it’s still flat and loose—he must look awful. “And you don’t know jackshit about me or my life, so shut the hell up about it.” 

Billy crosses his arms. Still smiling. Only ever serious when he wants to be. 

“You done yet?” Billy says.

“Your hair is dumb.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Too much denim is a thing.”

“Not true.”

“You look like a twelve year old trying to grow a mustache.”

“Really nailed me with that one. Is that all you got? Did those little turds you hang out with think of these for you?”

Steve goes rigid. “Don’t call them that.”

“You fucking _serious_?” 

“Yeah.” Steve says. “They’re— _they’re good kids._ ”

“They’re a bunch of little know-it-all shits, Harrington.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, let’s do this again.” 

“What?”

“Go ahead, pick a fight with me. Why not.”

“I don’t need your permission—”

“—here’s how it goes. You say something shitty and I say something shitty back and one of us says something _too shitty_ —and what? You hit me then I hit you?” Steve says, tired and _done_. “Fuck that. You’re an asshole. Those kids are _a million_ times better than you’ll ever be in your sad shitty life, Hargrove.”

Billy’s grin is sharp with carved out dimples and angry teeth as he leans into Steve’s space, pushes Steve’s binder away and makes room for himself on the table. 

He’s big and his chest is practically tearing out of his shirt as he gets close, there’s a prickle on Steve’s neck saying _dangerous_ , but Steve can smell Billy—his cologne, his sweat, his lips are a bubblegum pink with a sweet scent that carries on his breath with an unnatural shine— _a girlish shine_ —and Steve is pissed off and wants to topple some bookshelves, but he wouldn’t mind—he doesn’t think he would, at least—even now, with the pounding in his chest that’s got his head blistering, knowing how easy it would be to take a swing, to restart the fight all over again—right now under all this he would—

“You know _why_ I know you don’t have any fire?” Billy says and grabs the front of Steve’s jacket, jerks him forward. “You’ve been hiding in the fucking library every day from lil Miss Cheating Princess and her new boytoy and you mope around this dump like you don’t care if you trip and fall on your pretty boy face. No shit you wanna quit.” Billy shoves him back, the feet of Steve’s chair lift off the ground and slam down. “You don’t give a shit and you’re a _goddamn pussy_ , Harrington _._ ”

Steve’s lips tremble. It’s true. It’s _obvious_. He’s so fucking _tired_ and he lied to _Nancy_ and _he doesn’t want to do this_. He never even wanted to fight. Not with the Upside Down or with Jonathan or with Billy, but he had to and now he fucking has to again because Billy Hargrove can’t _see_ and can’t help but spit in Steve’s face despite himself and Steve isn’t any better.

 _Well, you know. I’m bullshit_ , Steve thinks, _and you’re bullshit too_. 

“It’s a shame,” Steve says, “like an actual fucking shame, because you’re almost bearable to be around when you aren’t being a goddamn dick, so just fuck off.”

“Says the guy gagging for my _attention_ barely a day ago.”

Billy’s face is an angry red. He’s holding himself still and watching Steve, ready to fucking _spring_ at the first sign, to demolish him. Steve pictures him lying on the ground beside him. Billy with leaves tangled in his hair. He’d had blood drying on his lips and chin from someone who’d hurt him just as bad as he’d hurt Steve. Curls in his swollen and bruised face. Eyes stupidly blue. He’d been right in front of Steve, gorgeous and angry and pliant and hard, so focused on only him. 

The ache in Steve’s chest had quieted.

Steve leans in, meets Billy’s angry glee with some of his own and shoves down everything else, says, “Tommy knows. About you. You’re not fooling anyone with this macho shit.”

Billy laughs. It’s bitter. His hands twitch on the table. Steve flinches. 

“ _Pussy_.” Billy bites out and leaves, his chair topples over behind him. 

 

—

 

Steve skips his next class. Stays in the library, slouched over the table with his head on the dictionary. Staring at Billy’s empty seat. He’d left his book behind. _Sirens of Titan_. It’s not for any assignment Steve can remember having in junior year. He can’t recall the last time he’d read a book just for fun. 

He traces along the figures on the cover. He thumbs at the library card inside, pulls it out of its sleeve. _Billy Hargrove_ checked it out three times.

Miss Schmidt finds him and orders him out with a bored, _I know when a student is playing hooky, young man. Out_.

He shoves Billy’s book into his binder.

 

—

 

Steve’s break is up and his first basketball practice in weeks is a _mess_. He can’t shoot for shit. His endurance has gone to hell and twenty minutes in he’s bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath from the sidelines, bare chest dripping in sweat, his toes swimming in his shoes. His teammates keep giving him _looks_ like they know why he’s suddenly shit. 

Coach calls him over twice to ask if he’s _okay_ , like this is Steve’s first game and Steve isn’t _good_ at basketball which just raises Steve’s hackles and makes him want to tell Coach to _fuck off_ —it’s not like he’d be the first player to do that, but Steve’s mouth has already done enough for one day. 

His focus is split between Billy and Tommy. Practice slips into a fight that’s not really a fight with too rough body blocks and checks, Billy determined to knock him off his feet and Tommy playing backup and helping him get Steve cornered. It’s like their first practice all over again with Billy hanging off of him, but Steve doesn’t just ignore it and hope Billy tires himself out this time. Steve bounces back and shoves just as hard. Gets in Billy’s face. Neither of them say anything. Steve meets that wild look in Billy’s eyes with his own and spares some of it for Tommy too. 

It feels like it’s a game between just the three of them. At one point Billy is at his back, grinding against him, blocking him from a shot when Steve moves to push him back and his elbow collides with Billy’s nose. There’s blood gushing from him and Steve’s arm is covered in it. Coach throws Billy a towel and sends him to clean up. Tells Steve to do ten laps on the field out in the downpour.

_The rain’ll clean you up, son._

Steve manages half of a lap before he bails, gym shoes sinking into the muddy grass, soaked and if he stays out any longer he’s pretty sure he’ll drown. He’s the only one outside at all. Coach can go suck it.

The locker room smells wet and like _guys_ and is practically empty with everyone else still at practice, but there’s the sounds of someone getting dressed—Billy. Maybe he can catch up to him. Apologize. Let Billy punch him wherever he wants. Maybe Billy is just waiting around the corner to pummel him properly.

Steve stands there by the locker room door, listening to those quiet noises. His anger deflating, leaving him tired and freezing and _sore_. 

Steve strips, shoves his wet clothes into his locker, and brings his muddy shoes into the showers with him. Uses the soap to clean off the grime. He’s just finishing when his teammates filter in, naked and laughing and it’s different, now. Awkward when it shouldn’t be. Steve’s too aware of himself and where he’s looking. 

He thinks of the dip in Billy’s back, the way it arched off the ground when he came. If other guys look like that too or if that’s just what Billy does. Wishes he hadn’t gone out to the field at all. Maybe he would’ve caught Billy in the showers.

Flustered, Steve squirts some shampoo into his palm, scrubs at his scalp hard and thinks of his mom and his dad and how college is still a _thing_ they ask about.

Tommy slides into the empty space beside him. Turns his shower on and starts washing up and for a second Steve thinks this’ll be it, no talking and no acknowledging each other. He got it out of his system. Tommy might have too.

“Just—shut up for a sec and _listen_.” Tommy says, secretive and in a whisper that’s barely a whisper and he’s edging closer, out of his spray and towards Steve’s like they’re still _friends_ and—no, that is not what Steve wants to happen at all. “I was talking to Stacy McKenzie—“

“—you and Carol finally break up?”

“ _No, asshole_. I was talking to McKenzie and she said Billy didn’t even _try_ anything with her, like, _she_ was the one who had to put his hand on her tits and she has the _best_ tits in school. She was practically on his lap begging for it and the dude wasn’t even hard.”

Steve rubs shampoo into his eyes. The sting is a relief from talking with Tommy.

“So?” Steve says.

“ _So_ I just think it’s fucking weird.”

“Don’t.”

“Steve.”

“No, not _Steve_ and definitely not this again, dude.”

“ _Dude_. This is _Stacy McKenzie_. ”

“Why is this conversation happening to me?” Steve says to himself and to god and _hopes_ there is an entire school between Billy and this shit. “I don’t care, I really don’t care.”

“You got a target on your back and Billy is all over it—you should care.”

“This is seriously the dumbest conspiracy you’ve ever come up with.”

“You are so fucking dense, Steve.”

“No, it’s just dumb.”

“Dude,” Tommy waves his bar of soap at Steve. “I think he’s a—a _you know_.”

“Oh my god, _I don’t care_.” Steve says. Goes under the spray and rinses his hair. “Maybe the guy was too drunk or he’s saving it for marriage or, I don’t know, he wasn’t into Stacy. Who gives a shit.”

“Anyone with a dick is into Stacy, Steve. You couldn’t shut up about her all through junior high when she got her tits.”

“I was also friends with you, so.”

“ _Think about it._ There’s something off about him.”

“I thought about it and I think it’s none of my damn business and none of yours either.”

Tommy sneers at him. “Just thought you should know the guy you’re hanging out with might be a _fucking queer_. I’d feel bad if you caught something from him and didn’t know it.” Tommy glares. “I should tell the coach, get him kicked off the team before he gets us all sick.”

Steve shuts his shower off, grips the handle too hard. Suds roll down his face, his neck, his chest. He feels hot and jittery, his chest tight as anger swells inside of him. His mom would tell him to count to ten and _breathe_. Billy would smash Tommy’s face against the shower handle and hold him there until he says _uncle_ , laughing through it all. 

Steve makes sure Tommy gets that he’s _done_ , that he’s going to do his own version of a _barbarian rage_ if he keeps talking and says, “Tommy, shut the fuck up.”

 

—

 

The Palace is open until ten o’clock on week nights. Steve has a pile of homework he should be doing, tests he should study for, but instead he goes along with Dustin and Will after practice and AV club. 

The camaro is long gone.

They’ve been there since six after eating two entire large pizzas from Domino’s—one pepperoni and the other pineapple which Steve at first completely rejected at Dustin’s suggestion of it and then proceeded to eat more than half the slices, not even really liking how it tasted, but he’d felt compelled to eat as much as he could or else. 

He didn’t know what the _else_ could have been. It wouldn’t have been anything good though so he ate and ate until Will and Dustin had finished and then ate what was left.

On a Monday at nearly closing, The Palace isn’t busy. There are a handful of other kids in the place and Steve is by far the oldest one there, next to Keith who’s job seems to be walking around crunching on a bag of chips or critiquing Steve on his gaming skills in such a matter of fact way it’s like Steve is actively failing a test he didn’t know he was taking. 

Steve had only known Keith as that one guy who sits in the back of his chemistry class and who always raises his hand and _always_ gets the right answer. He’s a lot more annoying outside of the classroom than Steve thought he’d be, though Steve isn’t exactly in the friendliest mood right now.

Will has been glued to _Dragon’s Lair_ for the last hour. He’s more talkative than yesterday and actually ate his share of the pizza. Dustin is going back and forth between them, cheering them both on with their new sub-party’s name— _The Bachelor’s_. 

Steve refuses to acknowledge the name. Just. _No._

“God _damnit_.” Steve says. Slams his fist against the side of _Mario Bros._ and backs away from the console, tugging at his hair and losing his mind as he dies _again_. 

“Level 16 is a bitch, but that’s no reason to treat her like that.” Keith says. He’s got a bag of barbecue potato chips. “I could help you, but, like, I’m not that invested and honestly? This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened all month.”

At the face Steve makes and the _pure rage_ inside of him, Dustin jumps between Keith and Steve before Steve can smack that bag of _so fucking loud_ chips from that giant geek’s hands.

“Okay, Keith? Stop talking. Give us some room.” Dustin says, waving Keith off and approaching Steve carefully. “Buddy? Count to ten and _breathe._ ”

Steve does. All that does is make him feel worse. 

“I’m fine, Dustin.”

“You’re not. Like, you’re clearly not. You have this vein popping in your neck. It’s kinda gross.”

Steve shoves _another_ quarter into the console and jerks the controls too hard. Level 1. Again. _I might actually destroy this game_. He does have his bat in the car.

“ _I’m fine_. I’m just a little _annoyed_ that I keep dying because of some stupid blue fucking fire like the regular fire isn’t enough _I guess_ —what is that? Why would they have two fireballs plus the stupid monsters too— _shit_.”

Steve runs Mario directly into a tortoise. He stares at the screen. At his little Mario losing another life. 

Dustin pulls at his sleeve until Steve looks at him, feeling a bit dazed while he thinks _I’m such a piece of shit_.

“I know you’re not fine.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“You can tell me, you know? That’s what friends do, tell each other things. _Help_ each other.”

He looks so earnest and well meaning. Just a good kid who for some reason likes Steve and actually thinks he has something to teach him. Steve doesn’t want to be the one to break it to Dustin that the person he’s looking at isn’t even half as good as Dustin thinks.

 

—

 

It’s Will’s idea to take the backroads, the long twisted ones that have been around since Hawkins was first built. Something about not wanting tomorrow to happen just yet and that’s something Steve understands. Dustin seconds the idea, which means there’s a vote. Steve isn’t exactly rushing to get back home to an empty house and he’s got his bat with him. He throws his hand up in favor just to show Dustin how _totally fine_ he is.

Steve blasts Wham! making the drive just a little less potentially terrifying as they pass endless dark masses of trees with the occasional street lamp lighting the deserted roads.

The dip in the passenger seat as the car slumps happens slowly and Steve doesn’t notice until Dustin shouts. The forest is definitely aiming to scare Steve to death. 

Steve drives the car over to the shoulder of the road—made of nothing but mud, apparently, because the car starts to sink more than it already has and _something_ in the car groans as the back end lifts up. Steve clutches the steering wheel.

“Holy crap.” Dustin’s braced himself on the door and the dashboard. 

“Is this quicksand?” Will says with too much excitement, hands pressed to the window. 

“Just some mud. Nothing to worry about.” Steve tries hard to not _squeak_ and almost bites his lip off when the car jerks and sinks deeper into the mud.

“Oh my god, we’re Artax and we’re gonna _die_.” Dustin says. “We defeated the giant evil Mindflayer and now we’re gonna drown in mud and we’re gonna _die_.”

“Artax died in the Swamp of Sadness, not mud.” Will says.

“It could’ve been made of mud.”

“It’s made of _sadness_.”

“Shut up,” Steve snaps as every nerve of his gets strung out— _its so fucking dark_. “Everyone shut up for a second. I’m gonna go look.” Steve glares at both of them. “Stay in the car. Don’t leave the car. _Stay in the car._ ”

Will nods, eyes wide. Dustin says a quiet _okay_ and Steve knows if he takes longer than two minutes both of them will be outside of the car, solving the problem twice as fast as Steve ever could or somehow finding another monster.

It’s stopped raining. The trees are dripping water and there frogs croaking somewhere Steve can’t see. It’s still outside. Eerie.

The mud is thick and gooey and _freezing_ and Steve has to yank his feet up to take a step. Nearly loses his shoe to the mud a few times. Eventually he manages to circle the car. Gets his bat out of the trunk first. The front right wheel has blown out and the grill is nearly touching the soggy ground.

Steve crouches, pulls his hair back. Checks his watch. It’s nearly eleven and even if he knew how to change the tire and had the tools to do it there’s still no way to get it out of the mud first.

 

—

 

“We could walk back?” Will suggests, unsure. He’s standing with Steve as Dustin looks through the toolbox in the BMW’s trunk. Steve has left the headlights on, the only source of light on this stretch of the road.

“We could. We could.” Steve says even though he’d rather wait it out in the BMW white knuckling the bat until the sun is out before he walks around Hawkins at night. “It wouldn’t take too long or anything.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re only, like, a fifteen minute drive from the Fair Mart.”

“That’s close, I guess.”

“And we got the bat.”

“The bat’s—good.”

“Yeah.”

Will says in a rush, for the first time genuinely panicked, “ _I really don’t want to walk._ ”

Steve ruffles his hair until it’s all messy and Will isn’t looking quite so scared. Finds some comfort in it himself.

“Me neither, but I’m pretty sure we’re gonna have to.” Steve nudges the side of the BMW with the bottom of his foot like that proves anything. 

Dustin comes back holding a wrench that Steve didn’t know he owned.

“I got two plans. Plan A, we get on the trunk and jump on it until the front end is lifted out of the mud. Get some sticks from the—the forest and shove them under the front wheels and try pushing?”

“Um.” Will chews at his lip. Steve agrees.

Between getting possibly being eaten by something in the forest and denting his car which would lead to a conversation with his dad that had a high chance of killing him, Steve is unsure which would be worse.

“What’s the wrench for?” Steve says.

Dustin holds it to his chest. “Half weapon and half confidence booster.”

“Right.” Steve sticks his bat in the mud and claps his hands. He is the adult here. “Okay, I think we’re gonna need to hike it back to the Fair Mart. Call your parents and get you guys home before someone calls Hopper.”

“You haven’t even heard my Plan B yet.”

“Dude, it’s almost midnight. Your moms are already gonna kill me.”

“Come on, _we can solve this, Steve_.”

“Sure. Whatever. _Fine_. What’s Plan B?”

“Um,” Dustin hesitates and that just can’t be good. He pulls out his radio from under his jacket. “I might have managed to contact Lucas who might be with Max who might be with, uh.”

Steve’s mind blanks. He must not have heard that right because it doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“They’re coming.”

“That is _not_ a Plan B. That’s not even a _plan_.”

“Search and rescue _is_ a plan. We’re just on the, you know, receiving end of both of those.”

“Oh my fucking christ.” Steve says because he can’t say _Billy is literally going to drive me over with his camaro as soon as he sees me, why do you want me to die, Dustin?_ “What in the hell is the range on those things? Do you just carry it around with you all day?”

“It’s called being prepared for any and all Upside Down related and miscellaneous situations, Steve.”

“I should’ve brought mine too.” Will says to his shoes, but Dustin grins and pats him on the back.

“That’s okay. As long as one of us has it and we don’t split up, it’s all gonna be totally fine.”

 

—

 

The sound of the camaro is unmistakable and can be heard miles away before it appears around the blindspot of the road. An angry growl like a beast reverberating through the forest, shaking the trees. 

Steve grabs onto his bat and stands in front of Dustin and Will so they’re between him and the car. Bright headlights appear first, leading the way as the camaro zips passed them, makes a fast u-turn without slowing down, spraying mud high into the air and pulls up right in front of the BMW, its headlights blinding Steve from seeing anything. 

All he hears is a car door opening.

 

—

 

The eeriness and undercurrent of terror that had jammed itself under Steve’s skin begins to ebb away. It’s the kids greeting each other and laughing, acting like this is just another normal, zany night in a totally normal and zany town. But it’s also Billy—who lights up and walks around the car, boots sinking into the mud just as badly as Steve’s did, but there’s no getting stuck and he doesn’t say one word, just goes a lap circling the car and Steve and the kids examining the scene then leans against the hood of the BMW, blowing smoke rings without even having the decency to be pissed off at Steve and telling him to go _fuck himself_.

Billy is so chill and unbothered by everything he really should be bothered by he’s making Steve feel ridiculous holding the very relevant bat. Steve tries not to outright stare, switching for quick looks over Dustin’s head. With the camaro’s headlights on them Steve can see there’s new bruising around Billy’s nose and his eyes from when Steve had elbowed him.

But he’s not spitting mad. He’s not cornering Steve. He’s not kicking Steve to the ground and punching him as payback for everything.

He’s just _there_. Chill and waiting and _what the fuck?_

Steve doesn’t know what to do with this so he sticks to the kids as they huddle around the BMW’s bumper. They’re excited about _something_ and Steve tunes in just in time.

“Billy _apologized_.” Max says. “Like with the actual words ‘ _I’m_ ’ and ’ _sorry_ ’ together and everything. I’m pretty sure he’s possessed by that whatsitcalled-thing.”

“You mean the _Mindfla_ —I mean nothing. I said nothing. Never mind.” Dustin cuts himself off, looking at Billy. Max and Lucas ignore him.

“ _Max_ —“ Lucas throws his hands in the air, “—I gotta set the _scene!_ ”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot. Sorry?”

“It’s fine. I forgive you.” They look at each other—two kids getting this mushy, _ugh_ —Steve rolls his eyes and catches Billy doing the same. 

Lucas straightens his jacket, getting into his storytelling role. _Does he do this that often?_

“So a couple days ago, I asked Max out to the movies—she said yes, of course—“

“What movie?” Dustin says.

“ _Police Academy_ , but that’s not—that’s not the point though.”

“That’s also not a date movie, dude.” Steve says for no reason other than to annoy Lucas, which he does by the glare he sends him. 

“Agreed.” Billy says, tipping his cigarette at Steve.

“ _Sixteen Candles_ would’ve been way better. Molly Ringwald? You don’t get better than Molly Fucking Ringwald.”

“ _Footloose_?” Will says and Steve nods, snaps his fingers.

“Yes. _Footloose_. That’s a solid date movie too.”

“Well we’re thirteen and also, you know, _so not the point_. And we didn’t end up seeing it anyways, so you guys can just shut up now.”

Max cuts in, “Billy bought us tickets to _Friday the 13th_.”

“That is _not_ a movie for _kids_ , Hargrove.” Steve says to test the waters. Billy shrugs.

“Jonathan took me to see it twice.” Will says. 

“Why would you want to see it _twice?_ ” Steve had barely managed to get through it once. Sequels always sucked.

Lucas claps his hands. “ _Anyways_. I ask her out at lunch, but she can’t go unless _Billy_ chaperones and I’m like, ‘ _I’m not getting in a car with that homicidal psycho_ ’ and Max is like ‘ _I know, right? He’s such an asshole_ ’ and we’re kind of just stuck—“

“—and then Billy is telling me to,” Max deepens her voice, trying to imitate Billy and only managing to sound like she’s gargling, “—‘ _get in the fucking car_ ’ and I’m like ‘ _fuck no_ ’ and he’s like ‘ _please_ ’ and I’m like ‘ _fuck you’_ and we go to Lucas’ house and I’m thinking ‘ _oh no, Billy is gonna go all berserk on Lucas and his whole family_ ’—“

Dustin elbows Steve and whispers ‘ _barbarian rage_ ’ while wiggling his eyebrows.

“—and he’s telling me to go get Lucas and bring him out to the car and, like, I’m definitely not gonna do that and I say ‘ _fuck you_ ’ and Billy says ‘ _fuck you_ ’ and so we’re just outside Lucas’ house _yelling_ at each other and Billy is being the worst _ever_.”

“There was a lot of really loud cursing.” Lucas says. “My mom got so mad.”

“Yeah. And then Lucas comes out.”

“I thought Billy was gonna do something.”

“I had it handled, but, like, I appreciate that you wanted to help. Really cool of you.”

Lucas grins at her and once again—too much, Steve thinks. He doesn’t need to see children in a happy, committed relationship. Thanks, but, like, no.

“Then Billy, who’s seriously still just the biggest assface,” Max says and Billy mutters loudly around his cigarette _bitch, you too_ , “goes up to Lucas and I was so ready to knock him out with my skateboard—I brought it just in case—and he just like,” Max holds her hand out to Lucas, “and literally says, ‘ _Man to man, I’m sorry for being the world’s biggest jerk please please please forgive my sorry dumb ass’—_

“Didn’t say that.” Billy says.

“ _It’s implied_.” Max rolls her eyes. “He says _something_ like that and then is waiting for Lucas to shake his hand and Lucas is just _staring_ at Billy.”

“I couldn’t believe he came to _my house_ to apologize. I was thinking, ‘ _how does he know where I live? Is this a trick? Is he gonna finish me off? Did he bring Max to watch?_ ’ and I look at Max and _she_ is freaking,“ Lucas’s eyes go wide—shocked, “and then it clicks that _holy crap_ this guy actually means it.”

“Whoa.” Dustin says. 

“It was so weird.” Lucas says. “Weirder than—weirder than _Jane_ weird kind of weird.”

“Lucas wouldn’t shake his hand until he made Billy promise to ‘ _not be a dick to Max anymore_.’” Max says, then grins. “Also, Lucas made Billy give me his leather jacket. I wore it on our date.”

“You like that thing?” Steve says, grimacing.

Max glares at him—she has the same huffy anger Billy does. “Billy is a total dork, but his jacket looks like the Terminator’s. Duh I like it.”

“A bunch of little fuckin’ shitheads.” Billy says, but it’s not with his usual heat. Chews on the end of his cigarette, flicking it into the mud and lighting another one. “Are we gonna fuck around out here all night or are we gonna deal with Harrington’s trash car at some point?”

“My car is the opposite of trash. It’s a BMW. It’s amazing.” Steve says.

“Can you even count, pretty boy? It’s got three wheels.”

“Okay. Yeah, but it’s not the BMW’s fault it hit a—a _nail_ —wait,” Steve pauses, “was that why you were hanging out on Main in your car last weekend? Because of Lucas and Max?”

“ _Wow_.” Billy says dry as cardboard, pushing off the BMW, goes to the camaro and pops the trunk all the way open and Steve is no longer able to see him, which just rankles.

“Did he just call you _pretty boy_? You?” Lucas says. He studies Steve as though ‘ _Steve_ ’ and ‘ _pretty_ ’ don’t belong anywhere near each other and Steve gets that, he does, he’s never thought of himself as pretty— _occasionally handsome when he tries?_ sure, but not _pretty_. 

 _Hargrove and his big, fat mouth_. Steve can only marvel at how good Billy is at wrecking his reputation with two words and zero effort.

“You’re not pretty.” Max says like it’s just fact, quick to join the confusion growing on each of their small faces as they examine Steve and— _christ_ , having a bunch of kids decide on whether or not he’s _pretty_ is a new level of god awful for his confidence to experience that he wasn’t at all prepared for.

“Stop looking at me like that. Don’t we have a more important situation to deal with here?” Steve snaps, his ears burning. Life is immensely unfair.

“I think you’re plenty pretty, Steve!” Dustin says. 

“M-me too.” Will adds quietly.

“I mean, it’s not like you’re _ugly_.” Max says.

“Thanks. Really appreciate it. You’re both dickheads. Dustin? Will? You’re my favorites.”

“It’s not my fault you’re not pretty.” Lucas says. “Sigourney Weaver, she’s pretty.”

“Madonna. La Toya Jackson. _Pretty_.” Max adds.

“Yeah!” Lucas says. Nods. Stares at Steve’s face too closely. “I mean, like. _Max_ is pretty. Jane is pretty. _Girls_ are pretty. You? You’re—“

“—kinda funny looking, actually.”

“You’re like a mix between those two guys—Jake and, um, Ted? Sort of?”

“Yeah. Kinda good looking, but, in like, a really unique—“

“Steve _is_ pretty,” Dustin says again, insisting, Will nodding gravely beside him, “he’s at least way prettier than—than Max—“

Lucas scoffs. “Max is a girl so, no—“

“—and also _right here_ , you dingledong.” Max says, poking Dustin in the shoulder.

“—Okay. Please? Please. No. Just, no.” Steve gets between them and holds his hands up, stopping any more arguments over his looks. He can only take so much criticism and being compared to a little girl before he either runs off into the woods or cries. “We’re not doing this. We’re not. No.” Steve shakes his head, pushing every thought he ever had about his own looks down into that dark pit inside of himself that would not be acknowledged in any way.

“Stay here. Don’t move or wander off or go trying to find out what that strange noise was or, or go chasing after some sort of alien-hell-monster-thing to poke at, okay? Just. Stay here, got it? Got it?”

He looks at each of the kids’ small, amazingly irritating faces, hands on his hips, mustering what little energy he has to stare every one of them in the eyes waiting for them to nod.

 

—

 

Billy has the trunk open and is sitting on the bumper with a yellow chord in his hand like it isn’t nearly midnight and this isn’t Hawkins, podunk town that happens to be the single most terrifying place in the damn country to be alone in and fucking _grins_ up at Steve—he heard every word.

Steve ignores him. Doesn’t say a damn thing and sits on the bumper beside him. Billy passes his cigarette and Steve takes it—it’s wet at the end, _fuck_ —and exhales the jittery jump in his leg. The kids are still arguing, though _thank fucking god_ they’ve moved on from Steve’s looks to how they would survive Camp Crystal Lake.

_The biggest nerds. Every one of them._

“Friday the 13th? _The Final Chapter?_ Seriously?” Steve says. Quiet so they aren’t overheard.

Billy just _shrugs_ again. Lights up another cigarette for himself. “The little shitstain likes horror. Why fight it?”

“I don’t know. They’re kids and all the murder, probably? And it’s such a godawful movie?” 

“You’re such a good mama, ain’t ya, Harrington.” Billy blows smoke in Steve’s face. “Just gotta accept shit sometimes. It’s a fuckton easier that way.”

Steve eyes him for a long moment. 

Billy stares off at the road, at the dark forest, face gone tense and far away with no sign of that grin or joy from Steve’s slaughtered pride. Curls hang in his face. He looks so much _smaller_ than he should. 

Steve thinks about reaching out and touching his shoulder. He thinks better. 

“I’m a dick.” Steve says. Can’t _not_ say. “Like, seriously, I’m a _dick_. I have no idea why Nancy ever—I guess I get _now_ why she picked Jonathan over me, but that’s not—that isn’t what I wanted to—” Steve groans, bites down on his cigarette and scrubs at his hair with both hands, gets his nails digging into this scalp. Glares at Billy. “I’m an asshole. I know I’m an asshole, but, like, you’re an asshole too—and you keep _picking_ at me, dude.”

Billy doesn’t respond. Gives Steve an unimpressed stare. He sucks on his cigarette. Blows smoke out his nose, lips thinning. A bull about to charge at who knows what.

“ _I coulda been a contender_.” Steve says, doing his _at best_ horrible Marlon Brando, because he’s insane and awkwardness is a noose around his neck. But the distant, angry _look_ is startled off of Billy’s face and that makes it _the best_ Brando impression.

“Tell me that wasn’t supposed to be Brando.” Billy says.

“Terry Malloy, not Brando.”

“That _is_ Brando.”

“It’s Brando _being_ Terry Malloy.”

Billy snorts and waves his cigarette at Steve. “You’re wrong and you are a way bigger dweeb than I thought.”

“A dweeb who can do _amazing_ impressions, I know.”

Billy laughs quietly. Small little huffs that untwist something inside of Steve. 

“Starting over.” Steve clears his throat. “ _I’m_ an asshole. You’re _something_. And I’m sorry I busted your nose—I don’t know where my elbows are half the time anymore and Tommy is such a pile of crap and doesn’t know what he’s saying literally _all_ the time and thinks Reagan is a lizard and I’m just really, _really_ tired of this—“ Steve says and waves a hand between them, “—bullshit fighting pissing contest crap, okay? I don’t care if it makes me sound like a pussy or—shit— _whatever_ , I’m just done with it. You know?”

He’s happy it’s so dark. Billy can’t tell how red his face has gone.

Billy stares at him like he’s strange and truly every bit as weird as Billy probably thinks Steve is and Steve doesn’t shy away. He waits. He’s good at waiting. 

Billy flicks his cigarette into the mud, gets up and steps on it. Hesitates, opens his mouth a few times before going stiff. Looks at Steve suspiciously and if it were light out and Steve could see better he’d say Billy is being _shy_.

“You saying you want to be _friends_ , Harrington?”

“I _did_ give you a delicious cookie.”

“It was _okay_.”

Steve scoffs. _Please_. “It was the best cookie anyone’s ever had. You should thank Dustin for it, his mom made them for us.”

“Yeah. That’ll go real well.” 

It’s like they’re five. Steve is embarrassed for the both of them.

He watches Billy staring off into the forest, thinking on it—he’s only wearing his usual denim jacket, _he must be cold, how weird would it be if I offered him my coat? too weird?_ Then Billy is holding the yellow chord out for Steve and Steve stands up to take it, holds it gingerly, not knowing what exactly he’s supposed to do with it. 

“Know what that is?” Billy says with his thumbs hooked in his jeans.

“No?”

“It’s a tow strap. You’re gonna attach one end of that to your car and one end to my car and then I’m gonna pull your shit BMW out.”

“I’ve never,” Steve pauses to thumb at the metal on the ends, “where do I even put these? The fender?”

“Fuck no. Jesus christ, _no_. You’re gonna get under the car and hook it up to the k member. A metal hoop.”

Steve stares blankly at Billy. “That sentence made no sense to me.”

Billy steals Steve’s cigarette from his hand. Puffs on it haughtily. “There’s a hole in the chassis—the fucking big metal bones under the car—and you’re gonna hook the strap into it. Simple enough?”

“How the hell am I supposed to see anything when I can barely see you?”

“Ask one of your little nerd babies if they have a flashlight on them or,” Billy grins, dimples and sunshine in the back roads of Indiana and pulls out his lighter, flicking it open, “you can use this.”

“You don’t have a flashlight in your Mary Poppins trunk?”

Billy shrugs. Back to being an asshole. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Steve had gotten so accustomed to the darkness of the trunk barricade the small flame is blinding. Orange light paints Billy’s skin with warmth, his eyes are actually twinkling.

“Tell me you’re joking. Don’t fuck with me, Hargrove.”

But Billy keeps smiling and the kids keep talking and his car keeps sitting in the mud and it’s only getting later and colder and he’ll have two worried Hawkins mothers to deal with if they don’t get moving soon. Resigned, Steve looks at the cold wet ground. His shoes are already ruined. Fuck it.

“Ready, pretty boy?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “And by the way, I hate you for that.”

“I figured. Definitely worth it though.” Billy comes closer, his chest presses against Steve’s shoulder—he’s warm and his muscles are _firm_. They’re hidden by the open trunk of the camaro, so Steve lets himself lean into it. 

Billy’s curly hair brushes Steve’s cheek. It’s soft and Steve smells his hairspray and slips into a daze where the night and the woods and his car aren’t a bother at all. Billy’s voice is a honeyed whisper curling in his ear when he says, “you got way better hair than Molly Ringwald, Harrington.”

Then he steps away, slaps Steve’s back, jolting him out of the heady trance he’d just put Steve into and punches his fists in the air, howling. 

 

—

 

It’s irritating and a little—a very tiny, little bit—impressive how Billy can control a gaggle of kids who hate him, get them to shut up, actually listen to him, and then _do exactly what he says_. 

Getting the front end of the car up and out of the mud is a lot easier than Steve imagined it would be as Billy directs the kids—except _Maxine_ , who, _like hell is gonna get even a speck of mud on her dress, don’t even fucking think about it_ —and Steve to get on the trunk, leverage it up just enough for Billy to start digging through the mud to shove the jack under it.

The rain is coming back, just sprinkling, making what’s already _messy_ downright filthy. Max holds the bat and Billy’s jacket reluctantly. Billy is covered in mud from his chest to his feet, hands thick with it as he gets the jack under the BMW and starts raising it from the mud pit, wet and so victorious that Steve _has_ to cheer and then the kids join in too. Even Max is shouting _fuck yeah_ from the sidelines.

Dustin and Lucas dig the spare tire out of the trunk. Steve gets the toolbox. He’d watched his dad change a tire twice in his life, but he’d been young enough that he still had trouble saying his ‘r’s. 

Billy knows what he’s doing though. Shockingly doesn’t make any snide comments about the state of Steve’s toolbox and how _obvious_ it is that he’s never touched it. Will holds and aims the flashlight—Dustin is the one who ends up having one squirreled away in his backpack. Steve crouches beside Billy and holds the lug nuts in the makeshift hammock of his shirt. Dustin and Lucas are in charge of handing Billy the tools.

Billy is so focused and the tire is changed so quickly Steve actually wishes it would have taken longer so he could watch him more—his shirt sticking to him like a second skin, mud wiped off and streaked along his hands and arms, smudges on his face, his biceps bulging as he lifts the tires, how he brushes his dripping hair behind his ear. His hands are big and capable. Billy is _really good_ at this and he _looks_ good too. 

It’s a relief then that all Steve had to do was hold a bunch of metal. He’s so distracted by _Billy_ and when Billy reached to take one of the lug nuts from Steve’s shirt, their hands brushing, Steve’s heart hammered in his chest. 

The spare goes on and the old tire is thrown into the trunk. Then it’s Steve’s turn. That old familiar stress comes back and makes him sweat and his fingers twitch. 

Billy shouts _you got this, Harrington_ like they’re in the middle of a game. Steve follows Billy’s example and takes his jacket off before he gets under the car, hands it to Will because he knows Will won’t drop it. 

He hesitates though. It’s muddy. The car is a giant hunk of metal. Steve is a squishy human. The kids are all looking at him and he knows Dustin is about ready to slide under the car with him for moral support.

“It’s safe,” Billy says quiet enough for the kids not to hear. “You’re not about to get squashed on my watch, Harrington. Your fanclub would kill me.”

Steve nods. Grateful. He takes Billy’s word for it and flicks the flashlight on.

The mud is freezing and after a few very undignified minutes of wiggling and squirming his way into spotting this mysterious hole—that, after not finding it immediately, Steve briefly thinks it doesn’t exist and Billy is just fucking with him—he manages to get the strap hooked into it after a few tries. Billy pulls him out from under the car by his ankles, offers Steve his hand and Steve takes it, both of them slick with cold mud, but Billy doesn’t let Steve slip out of his grip as he hauls him up onto his feet.

Billy hooks the other end to the camaro quickly, orders everyone to get on the other side of the road and in under a minute the BMW is pulled out of the mud.

 

—

 

The kids are saying goodnight. Max and Lucas are back in the camaro. There’s an awkward moment where Dustin shakes Billy’s hand and says _thanks_ before he and Will climb into the BMW to avoid the new batch of rain.

Steve is dripping in mud—it’s _everywhere_ —and Billy is too. They’re grinning at each other, both ignoring the rain and the cold. Steve doesn’t even mind that they’re inches from the woods and that his bat is inside the trunk out of reach and how he must look deranged.

He’s trying to figure out how to say _goodnight_ and _see you tomorrow_ and _are we friends now?_ all at once without seeming like he’s got some sort of complexion. 

“I know what’ll fire you back up.” Billy says, hands on his hips surveying his work and Steve. The rain has washed the mud from Billy’s face and his clothes are somehow even tighter, clinging to him. 

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

“You’re gonna get an A on your essay.”

It takes Steve a minute to remember Mrs. Cobb and his failing grades. It feels like it happened weeks ago and yet Billy remembered.

“I am?” Steve says slowly.

“Yep. You’re gonna get an A and then you’re gonna make it up to me for that shitty Brando impression.”

“Hey, it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Harrington.” Billy says seriously. “It was _bad_.”

“It was good enough that you got it.”

Billy ignores him though, steps closer with his hands in his pockets, not looking at Steve, and says just loud enough to be heard over the downpour, “it was _so bad_ that I’m gonna have to come over to your house on Friday night. _If_ you get an A.”

“Oh.” Steve says. _Oh_.

Billy nods. There’s that shy, uncertain demeanor again that Steve soaks up, memorizes and is going to pick at and daydream about later. Then Billy’s back is turned to Steve, walking away to the camaro and flipping Steve off over his shoulder.

“Wait—you don’t get to just—just act all _cool_ and _leave_ after that.”

“First off, Harrington,” Billy says, walking backwards and thanks to the headlights Steve can see how smug he is, “everywhere I go and everything I do is fucking _cool_. I don’t need to _act_. And second—later, you giant dork.”

Steve watches him get in the camaro, the engine roars, the headlights flood the road, music blasts from the speakers—heavy guitars wailing together that he doesn’t recognize. 

Steve mutters after him in the quiet left behind by the camaro, “you’re the dork, _dork._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. My knowledge of car repair is slim (despite lots of research) and I can't imagine it is remotely safe to do anything of what they did in that kind of weather, but Billy is just that metal and it's the 80s
> 
> 2\. I love the image of kid!Billy and kid!Steve watching old black and white movies 
> 
> 3\. This chapter was going to be split in two because it's so dang long, but then I thought, "nah."
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com) if you want to chat about how dorky Steve and Billy are


	3. [1/3]

His dad sighs—a lot—during the phone call.

Five passed six in the morning. Last night doesn’t feel _real_ and Steve would worry he’d dreamt it all up except for the muddy clothes he has lying on the bathroom floor and the mud is still sticking in the corners of his fingernails. He keeps picking at them and making his fingertips sore and red. The dirt is _still there,_ though. It’s annoying. His nails are chipped now. The dirt seems to drive deeper in and he really, _really_ didn’t want to have to call his dad.

But there’s a very obvious dent in the fender, no matter which angle you look at it. In the hood of the trunk there’s a dent that’s a little too close to being foot shaped. And the whole tire _thing_. He kind of _had_ to call.

He’d spent the rest of last night driving Dustin and Will home. Getting manhandled then coddled by Ms. Byers and Claudia, who managed to hug all three of them at the same time. Lots of cheek pinching. Lots of kisses to the side of his head. Hair ruffling to the extreme.

It had been nearly one in the morning by the time he’d come home. The short drive from Dustin’s to his house he’d cranked up the volume, blasting Hawkin’s local station. They never had much up to date music, but at one in the morning it felt like he’d gone back in time by several decades. If he ever has to listen to _I like Bread and Butter_ again in his life he’ll drive himself into a ditch on purpose this time.

Still. He sang along with it. It’s one of those songs his mom would burst out into whenever she was cleaning or cooking. He knows every damn word. He can almost hit the high notes too.

There’s this nervous, excited _flutter_ in his stomach, his chest, his fingertips that kept his hands tapping the wheel last night and kept him from sleeping despite how _damn tired_ he knew he was. The flutteriness is still there when he wakes up barely four hours later and keeps him from entirely focusing on what his dad is saying.

What Billy said to him is on a loop. How he said it to him. How he looked when he said it to him.

_you’re gonna make it up to me_

_I’m gonna have to come over to your house on Friday night_

Billy had been smiling in the rain. Covered in mud and soaked through. HIs dumb hair flat and curling along his jaw with fat droplets of water dripping off of him. All dimples and looking at him under thick, fanning lashes. _Shy_ and fucking _smiling directly at him_ —

_you got way better hair than Molly Ringwald, Harrington._

Steve fusses at his hair. Looks at himself in the mirror above the phone. His dad says _something_. His face is _hot_.

He hopes Billy got home all right.

It had taken Steve a solid minute of staring into the receiver to build up the strength to dial the familiar numbers to their place in Indianapolis. The car only has three tires plus the spare. The spare would only last as long as his parents were away and after they came home, if they just _found out_ on their own, if they saw the dents, well.

His mom would ask him questions until the sun had gone down and she’d be sitting on his bed trying to show how _concerned_ she was for him and he’d be pulling the covers over his head, trying to sleep.

His dad would have to go into his office for the night and the tension would seep from under his door out to the rest of the house and stab at Steve’s back, reminding him just what his dad thinks of him until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Steve could live without _that_ and the lecture that would be pummeled into his head. He’s gotten it before. Not exactly how he wants to spend another Saturday of his life.

It’s just better to get it over with and tell them sooner.

He keeps it short. Goes the Dustin route and spills it quick.

He’d gotten stuck on one of the back roads during a definitely _reasonable_ hour. He’d gotten a flat. A friend had changed it for him. The car is okay, except, well, the tire with the mystery hole in it. And, _well_ , two very, _very_ tiny dents. So tiny. Like, the smallest dents. Barely dents. And, you know, _I’m fine, so completely fine. Nothing broken. All intact._

No mention of the kids. There would only be more sighing over how irresponsible it is to be driving out late with _children_. More long pauses where Steve would keep his mouth shut, fidget with the telephone chord, curling it around his finger, uncurling it and then curling it the other way. Waiting for his dad to be done with him.

His dad has just had his morning coffee. He’s eaten. He’s in a better mood than if Steve had called earlier. Or later. He listens to Steve’s story. There are a few half-interested, mostly- _knew-this-would-happen_ grunts between the sighs. He’s not happy, but he’s not as unhappy as he could be with Steve. Disappointed. Not remotely surprised.

This is, _well, you know_ , Steve. Bound to happen.

_Curl. Uncurl. Curl. Uncurl._

Picks at his nail with the corner of a tooth. There’s still mud. Jesus.

Surprisingly his dad doesn’t hang up right away to call the garage and get the car towed and just be done with him like he usually does when he gets these kinds of phone calls from Steve.

There’s a final grunt that lingers. Steve can sort of hear his mother’s voice in the background asking if his dad wants more coffee.

“So your friend changed the tire?” His dad says. The underlying message being, _not you, the grown adult I gave the car to?_

“Yeah.”

“Tod?”

Steve pulls the receiver away from his ear to stare down at it.

_What?_

“Tommy, and, uh, no. Billy did?” Steve says, his voice going up at the end, now unsure of himself. He looks at his nails again. Mud is still there. This is real.

Having any interaction with his dad always gives him this sensation of being on uneven footing, like he knows nothing and he will never be much of anyone anyhow.

“Billy who?” His dad pulls away from the phone to ask his mom, “ _do you know who Billy is?_ ”

Steve rubs at his head, keeps his hand buried in his hair, tugging at it just enough to feel it. He gives himself a _what the hell_ look in the mirror. His reflection doesn’t know either.

“Hargrove, Dad.” Steve says slowly. “Billy Hargrove.”

“I don’t know the Hargroves.”

“They just moved here from California.”

His dad hums into the phone, thinking. _Curl. Uncurl. Curl. Uncurl. Twist, twist, twist._

“Good family?” His dad means a lot of things— _do they have money? educated? jobs you iron a suit for? divorced?_

Steve has no idea. All he knows about Billy’s family is Max and his dad would be even less interested in a thirteen year old girl’s qualifications than he is in Steve’s.

“Billy—he’s got a 4.0 GPA.” Is all Steve can offer. _It hurts more to look at him than to get beat up by him_ , probably wouldn’t be appreciated.

“And you’re _friends_ with him?”

“. . . Yes.”

Steve doesn’t know _what_ he is with Billy. He’s someone who will change his tire, make Steve crawl around in the dark muddy space under his car, and then pull him back up and beam at him so brightly it doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night. He doesn’t have any idea what that makes them. That’s a conversation he isn’t going to be having with his dad who drops the word _queer_ like loose change and thinks he and Reagan would be the _best drinking pals_.

Steve can’t even imagine what his dad would say to him if he knew— _what_ exactly is still in question, but his dad is smart and he’d probably figure whatever _this is_ out before Steve does.

And really. It’s all a little much. Gross. Billy Hargrove? Ugh. What the hell is wrong with him.

“It’s about time you started making friends with a better crowd. Maybe he’ll be a good influence on you, better than the Wheeler girl, at least.” His dad doesn’t sound convinced, but maybe Steve just doesn’t know what his dad sounds like when he’s hopeful. “Get you in shape to start at the office next year.”

Steve pretends to laugh, “yeah, you’re right.”

It’s hard to imagine Billy with his half open shirt, pierced ears, mullet, and painted on jeans being someone his dad would want to be in the same room as, let alone approve of.

His fake laugh turns a bit hysterical.

 

—

 

Steve takes his bat out of the trunk. Winces when he looks at the interior in the daylight. It’s rough. There’s dry crusted mud on the floors and the seats and even the— _ceiling?_ There’s a muddy handprint right in the middle and Steve just _knows_ it’s Dustin’s.

Out back, he hoses the bat off then hides it away in his shower to dry.

The BMW is towed to one of the two garages in Hawkins— _Joe’s_ the only one his dad trusts to not overcharge him _and_ to do it right.

The dents will be no problem. Easy to buff out. Old Joe senior has to special order the tire. It’ll be two weeks before Steve is able to drive it again. Longer, if there’s anything else wrong with the car because his dad is not going to give the keys back to him any time soon if that’s the case.

With no car and with school starting soon, Steve considers ditching. He knows he won’t be able to focus on anything during his classes anyways and if he stays home he can catch up on some sleep.

But if he doesn’t go then he won’t see Billy.

It’s too late to walk so Steve’s only option is his old red Schwinn bike. It’s sitting in the back of the garage, covered in dust and webs and what he’s pretty sure are spider eggs in the chain. The last time he’d ridden the bike he was fifteen-turning-sixteen and a full foot shorter, then he’d gotten the BMW for his birthday, had a growth spurt, and didn’t need his bike anymore.

He gets the broom to clean it off quick before even trying to touch it. Jumps when one of the spider eggs lands on his sneaker.

He has to fill the flat tires, which leads him to scrambling for the air pump. Eventually he finds it tossed in the cabinet with all the paint cans.

His knees knock into the handlebars. He tries riding it with his knees spread—too awkward and feels way too stupid—so he settles on riding it half standing up, binder and books strapped to his back with his belt.

There’s no way for him to take his bat. It feels _weird_ going anywhere without it now. He really doubts his binder will do jackshit when it comes to monsters.

The streets are wet with big puddles he tries to avoid, but settles for having to go through when the only other option is the muddy shoulder of the road. The cold wind whipping passed his face makes him sniffle and his eyes go watery, an aspect to biking to school he’d completely forgotten about. His windbreaker does nothing.

Cars whiz pass him. A couple honk their horn to get him to _move_. Steve does a lot of _I’m sorry, but you have a car and I don’t so_ waving in the ten minutes it takes to get to school.

Somehow he doesn’t drop anything or fall. He doesn’t get eaten either.

It’s kind of an actual miracle. Jesus would be proud of him, he’s pretty sure.

He makes it to school just as the first bell starts ringing. There’s still a crowd outside and in the parking lot. Nancy and Jonathan are leaning against Jonathan’s LTD. They’re pressed in close, in between kisses from how they’re leaning back and then in together.

Steve sniffs. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The _pang_ in his chest squeezes at him, threatens to make him do something awful like tear up or yell, but he pushes through it. Keeps his eyes forward. Doesn’t let his feet slow, but makes them go faster, push harder.

Billy is by his camaro—the car is spotless, no mud or anything. Must have woken up early to get it cleaned up so nice. Miriam Castellano is under his arm, tossing her long dark brown hair over her shoulder and laughing, pecking his cheek with glossy pink lips. Steve doesn’t realize he’s slowed down and is actually staring enough to catch the imprint she leaves on Billy’s cheek until Miriam gives him a _buzz off_ look.

Maybe he did imagine last night. Or Billy forgot. Or Billy wasn’t actually serious and was just fucking with him, but he’s got dirt under his nails and a filthy BMW to prove it _did_ happen and—

Billy catches his eye and then he’s raising an eyebrow at him. He cups his hand around his mouth, pulling away from Miriam to shout, “NICE RIDE, HARRINGTON.”

Steve nearly bikes head first into a group of freshman who don’t know when to move.

He can hear Billy laughing from the bike rack. _Still one big ole asshole_.

 

—

 

For the rest of the week, Steve tries.

Something he hasn’t done since the Upside Down and he had this realization none of this actually mattered so, like, _why bother?_

He puts genuine effort into the new draft of his paper. He digs out his copy of _The Great Gatsby_. Takes notes. Uses a yellow highlighter like Nancy had always been trying to get him to use. Tries to remember all those note taking tips she’d given him over their year of dating.

No naps are taken. His comfy dictionary pillow stays on its shelf. There are no thoughts about _Nancy dumping me_ or _Nancy said I’m bullshit_ or _Nancy and Jonathan are probably fucking somewhere right now_. He avoids it all like he avoids them in the hallways and keeps himself focused. Even goes to every one of his classes.

It’s three intense days of staying after school, huddling up in the library or his car, notebook propped up on his steering wheel. Telling Dustin he can’t go to the arcade, can’t hang out, can’t do _anything_ this week and the look Dustin gives him _hurts_ but it’ll be worth it, he knows it. Can feel it. This is going to be _something_.

Every minute he doesn’t have a pencil in his hand he’s got one on his dick and he’s reliving Billy soaked through and grinning, in the rain and having a blast and not knowing the world is one big lie.

He practices his Brando impression in the in betweens, recalling the way Billy had reacted to it. He’s gotten a lot better, finally found that down to earth twang of Brando’s and when he gets an A and when Billy comes over he’ll do Brando for him again and then—maybe—

 

—

 

Being a senior and Billy being a junior, their schedules don’t leave much room for crossovers—none, there’s no crossover at all—during the day. Steve has to go _out of his way_ to get to Billy’s side of the school and during lunch Steve is a ghost haunting the library.

Except this week is different.

Billy is in the halls. He’s looking at Steve. Saying _hey, Harrington_ and slapping him on the shoulder when Steve is at his locker. Between classes Steve will have one foot out of the classroom and there will be Billy, rounding the corner and coming his way. No Tommy or Carol. No girl of the day.

Just Billy. He’s just _there_ where he hadn’t been before.

There’s no talk about _the deal_. There’s not much talk at all, Billy doesn’t come to the library during lunch again, doesn’t offer to go smoke out under the bleachers, and the time between bells isn’t long enough, but there are heavy looks sent his way between the _hey_ and _Harrington_ and Steve is soaking it up. Doesn’t even care if it makes him seem pathetic. Billy is throwing it out there and he’d be a straight up moron not to go and fetch’m.

 

—

 

Steve doesn’t drop out of basketball.

Practice is spent watching Billy, seeing the body checks and shoves and tongue wags for what they are. He pushes himself to meet Billy move for move. He doesn’t care when the coach chews him out three times for dribbling or when Tommy keeps pulling him aside during their breaks to share his newest _Billy Hargrove Likes Dick_ theory. Steve’s gotten better at side stepping him. Not letting his bullshit effect him.

He’s known Tommy for too long and he knows when it’s a good time to cut it off and go back on the court. Let Billy toss him a ball and toss it right back.

For as much as Steve is watching Billy, Billy is watching him too. Even says _there’s the King Steve I’ve been looking for_ when Steve scores a point on him. Winks at him in the locker room, bare chested and necklace swinging as he ties his shoes. Steve stubs his toe on a bench. Gets Billy to laugh as well as a couple other guys, but mostly _Billy_.

Steve is floating on a goddamn cloud.

Tommy can suck it.

 

—

 

On Friday there’s a chill. Morning fog lingers and makes the sun a hazy, useless thing in the sky well after morning. The weather turns biking to school into a challenge, but Steve manages by going slower and more _careful_.

Sweat sticks to the back of his neck.

Last night he hadn’t been able to sleep, dreaming of big teeth sinking into his arms and his legs and, at the very end, his neck. He’d woken up shaking. All the lights in the house were already on so he’d gotten his bat and went to go smoke out the kitchen window, sitting on the little shelf over the sink with his sock covered feet propped up on the counter until six in the morning.

In the fog, the sound of a car’s engine, deep and growling, shoots up Steve’s spine and seeing their big shapes in the distance coming towards him—it makes Steve want to turn around and head home, back to his bat.

But he can’t do that, not today. Today is _the_ big day. He’s got his light blue pollo on. His bomber jacker. The jeans that really hug at his thighs and a comb in his pocket for when he gets to school and a can of hair spray in his locker to fix his hair— _before_ Billy sees him. Hopefully.

Bike rides suck when it comes to looking classy. Like sticking your head in a dryer. It’s just not good. Steve has standards and the bike is both horrible on his knees and his hair. Today he’s determined to do more than just swipe his hands through.

By the time school is in sight, his nerves start to shift into a different, excited kind of nerves. He’s got his good clothes on. He _feels_ like he looks good. Maybe not _Miriam Castellano_ good, but, for _Steve Harrington_ he’s got _something_.

And he has his paper. Hand writing on point. Black ink. Neat as fuck. Smooth and unwrinkled in his binder. For the first time he’s actually proud of his writing.

Even the spray painted _STEVE HARRINGTON SUX_ ending with a half-decent drawing of a dick on the brick wall outside the entrance doesn’t bother him. _He has his paper_.

And Billy is getting out of his camaro. Billy is here. Billy is coming closer and looking _right at him_. It’s Friday. His paper is A+ worthy. There are genuine stars in his eyes.

Billy doesn’t just say a quick _hey, Harrington_ though. He comes over and _stops_. Stands next to Steve, eyeing the graffiti. Steve can smell his cologne—it’s _nice_ and he maybe sniffs a little too hard, but he covers it up with a sniffle and wiping at his nose. It is pretty cold still.

Steve is vibrating in his shoes. Doesn’t know what to say— _hey_ would be lame. _You didn’t forget about what you said on Monday, right?_ is too needy. He tries to subtly fix his hair, brush it back with his fingers, get the fringe right where it should be without looking like he’s trying.

Billy cuts off Steve putting his foot in his mouth. Turns his head to smirk at him.

“That true? You suck hair dick, Harrington?” Billy says.

Just straight to talking about _dicks_. Steve swallows around the _I dont know yet_ that’s about to honestly come out of his mouth. _That_ would be dumb. Billy isn’t _actually_ asking.

Steve plays it cool. He had friends once. He was at the top of the food chain _once_.

“Like a two dollar whore.” Steve says, his eyes on the red paint that’s dripped down the bricks. Tommy must have a supply of this stuff back at his place. He’s either being an asshole with it or sniffing it through a sock.

Billy snorts. “Knew it. Tommy can’t draw for shit.”

“He’s gotten a lot better. He actually knows what a dick looks like now _and_ he can spell my last name. Now I know which Steve he’s talking about.”

“Jesus, is he dumb.” Billy slaps Steve on the shoulder, the new usual back in action. Except his hand doesn’t leave and then it’s sliding down Steve’s back, between his shoulders, straight down along his spine. Stopping _just_ at his belt and lingering there long enough for Steve to experience how warm and big his hand is.

Steve nearly drops his binder. He freezes. His face lights up and goes warm.

Billy saunters off and without looking back and with a casual _I didn’t do anything, but I totally did_ wave over his shoulder. Like he didn’t do anything Steve hadn’t been expecting. Like they touch each other all the time. Like Billy is his friend.

 _There’s the answer to that_.

He's annoyingly cool.

 

—

 

It’s hard to compare anything with almost getting his face bitten off by a demodog or going underground into the Literal Tunnels of Hell his grandpa would rant about when he was having one of his World War II flashbacks, but seeing his grade strikes a sense of _fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK_ inside of Steve that’s on the same level.

He may not be scared for his life and the nerds’ lives and, you know, the entire planet going bust, but the disappointment is so sharp and he is so damn sick of his own bullshit.

He gets a C.

There’s a smiley next to it with an exclamation point saying, Steve is pretty sure, _fuck you, Steve, why did you even bother trying?_

Mrs. Cobb tells him how proud she is after class. That he showed massive improvement. She gives him a cellophane wrapped chocolate cookie the size of his head with a finger pressed to her lips and a smile.

Right. Yeah. _Thanks_. Smiles back. He’s Steve Harrington and he got a C and his dad would probably die from the shock.

It takes _a lot_ for him to not crumple up his essay and trash it right there.

 

—

 

The old Steve didn’t care about most things. He liked to get drunk. He liked to smoke _everything_. He liked being the star of the basketball team. He liked playing first base in baseball—home runs got him hard. He liked pretty girls with perky tits. He liked having sex with pretty girls with perky tits and a loose definition of virginity.

School—he didn’t give a shit. Monsters only changed how little a shit he gave, which went from _I guess I’ll go to class because I really don’t want dad to lecture me again_ to _I almost died and, like, I’d rather not do this, cool? Cool._

Except he’s the New Steve who spent weeks wanting Billy Hargrove’s attention and getting it and then putting in effort on a paper that _doesn’t matter at all_. It’s a reality check that whips him around the head and stings and as New Steve it just _sucks_ to know his best is still shit and as far off from an A as he was before. 4.0 GPA Hargrove definitely is going to—no fucking wonder Nancy went for dorky, smart Jonathan— _fuck_.

Steve doesn’t want to see Billy right now.

He waits until it’s a minute before the next class for the halls to clear to make his way to Billy’s locker. He shoves his essay through the grates of the locker door. Slams his hand against it hard. Wants the sting in his palm so he hits his hand again. Breathes in the numbing buzz through his nose.

A fucking C. Why the hell not. It’s the highest grade he’s gotten all year. _Amazing_.

 

—

 

Steve eats his giant cookie out on the bleachers, ray-bans on and feet propped up. The sun is out now, all the fog is gone and is replaced with that heavy air after days of rain and starting to get a little hot. His jacket is unzipped. His fingers are finally warm.

He picks his way through the massive cookie until it’s just empty cellophane he balls up and shoves in his pocket. It was delicious. He really does love Mrs. Cobb.

The decision is easy to make—he’s going to ditch. The day is too nice out. He won’t go home. The house is empty and he’d rather just _not_ today. Maybe he’ll head to the arcade and get in some practice on that Mario game. Keith won’t be there which is just a plus in every direction.

Steve licks crumbs off his fingers. Sucks a bit of chocolate off his thumb. Billy is a straight A student and Steve is _this_. He bites at his nail. _Ugh_.

There’s a bang that reverberates up the bleachers. It’s Tommy, stomping his way towards Steve. He’s grinning. Steve doesn’t even try for a second to hide how much he _doesn’t_ want to even be in the same room as Tommy.

“Saw you got the big cookie.” Tommy throws his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Steve looks at his arm and just groans. “Oh my god, did you eat it already? I really wanted a piece.”

“What makes you think we’re still on a cookie-sharing friendship level? Or, you know, friends at all?”

“It was a _really big_ cookie.”

“Not _that_ big.”

“Whatever, ” Tommy laughs, hugging Steve closer. Steve pushes him away, puts _air_ between them. Tommy is still _grinning_ at him. “You get a good grade on a paper or something? I heard she only gives those out to her best students.”

“Just thinks I’m cute, s’pose.” Steve says. It’s quiet and Steve waits for Tommy to get to the point, but Tommy is staring out into the field and has made himself comfortable. “What do you want, Tommy? Can I just say _no_ and get out of whatever this is going to be?”

“Why, you something to hide, Steve?”

“Jesus _Christ_. This is just super not fun.” Steve closes his eyes. Defeated, he says, blandly, “so, how’s Carol?”

“She won’t shut up about Madonna. She wants to bleach her hair, it’s gonna look so dumb.” Tommy pauses and for that split second Steve thinks this isn’t going to be the worst. Tommy smiles up at him. “So, how’s Billy?”

With his entire body, Steve sighs.

“We’re really, _really_ gonna do this again, huh?”

“It’s just a question.”

“It’s also, like, the fiftieth time, dude. How many times do I have to say _we’re not friends_ for you to get it?”

Tommy puts his hands up as though _Steve_ is the one overreacting.

“Did I join the _let’s talk about where Hargrove puts his dong_ club without knowing?”

Tommy shrugs, then sings, “pretty fucking defensive.”

“How the hell would I know? Billy’s Billy.”

“I see you guys being all butt-buddies every day, so.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever gets you off. Is this over?” Steve tries to go around him, but Tommy steps in front of him. “Oh, dude. This is getting sad. And, like, _weird_.”

“I just saw him slip a note into your locker. Can’t really say you’re _not_ friends, _dude_.” Tommy says.

Steve’s heart _thuds_ and then _pounds_. He stays cool though. Keeps the _I need to be at my locker now, why does Tommy keep existing in front of me_ from showing on his face.

Instead he rolls his eyes.

“Tommy, you’re with the guy _literally_ every day. You’re hanging off of him more than half the girls at the school.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Ughh,” Steve says. Tommy is a mouth breathing moron _and_ a dick and there’s never going to be any convincing him. “So is this like how you saw the UFO on the fourth of July or like how you saw Stacy’s tits at summer camp? ‘Cause. . .” Steve shrugs, letting the unspoken, _you’re kind of really full of shit_ trail off.

Tommy is dumb. He’s always been dumb. He makes Steve reassess why they were ever friends and how Old Steve could’ve lived with being _best friends_ with _him_.

Tommy gets the message by how fast he turns from smug to outright glaring at him.

“ _That’s different_.”

“How?”

“I’ve told you a million times, aliens have existed on Earth and in our government—“

“—so Hargrove’s an alien now?”

“Such an asshole, Steve.”

“It’s way more believable that an alien blew you than _Billy Hargrove_ being into dick—hey, Carol.”

Carol is hopping up the bleachers, her hair bouncing as she jumps from bench to bench, finally jumping up and landing on Tommy’s lap with an _oomph_ from Tommy. She whips her legs up to settle them on Steve’s lap.

Carol is smiling at him. She hasn’t done that in _a while_. It’s as unnerving as a car in the fog. Steve almost smiles back, but this is _Carol and Tommy_.

“Hey Steve.” She says sweetly, fanning her fingers at him in a flirty wave. “What’re you guys talking about?” She whispers, “is it little miss uppity Byers? I was so sad to hear about you guys. Tears. Honest.”

A big _no thank you_ right there. He stops that particular route of conversation quick.

“You going blonde?”

Carol perks up immediately, she leans over and puts a hand on his chest.

“Don’t you think it would look _amazing?_ I totally have the face for it. Madonna would hate me so hard.”

Tommy groans. “We were talking about Billy—“

“—Oh, I _love_ Billy.”

“What the hell, babe?“

Carol ignores him.

“He is so hot. Have you seen his jeans today? I swear, they’re getting tighter every day. How is that even possible? His ass is—I’m, like, _dying_.” Carol fans herself. Steve catches himself before he nods. “I don’t know what it is, but they really do make’m better on the coast.”

“I think the water is harder over there.” Steve says, repeating something his dad once told him about the west coast.

“Is that it?” Carol’s eyes widen. “That explains his abs. He let me touch them once and I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy in my life. Like fucking rock, Steve, actual fucking rock. _Gosh_.”

“You can’t say this shit, I’m right here.” Tommy says, voice going into the whiny pitch he uses when Carol is being mean to him.

“Oh shut up, you know what I mean.” Carol says. She jabs a finger into Tommy’s chest, making him wince. “This one is _Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy’s so rad_ all fucking day, but I say something about his hair, like, _once_ and _oh no,_ I’m the one with a crush—“

“Shut up, _shit!_ ”

Tommy covers her mouth with his hand, but she just pulls him off and shoves at him.

“Why are you getting so worked up? Ugh. This is why men suck. Except Billy. And you, Steve. You’re a sweetie.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, tempted to throw the Billy Hargrove Obsession back in Tommy’s face, but Tommy has gone bright red and it’s not from the cold. He’d had the same face when they were fourteen and Steve had told Carol Tommy liked her because Tommy was too chickenshit. Embarrassment covering up the secret truth behind all those ponytail tugs and mean comments—he did _really_ like her.

This asshole.

Steve has to take a deep breath. They’re not fourteen anymore. It would be real easy to just take a swing at Tommy for not growing up and for saying Billy’d get them _sick_. Steve grips the metal bench, digs the edge into the soft parts of his fingers, to stop himself from making a fist and cocking it.

It would be the easiest thing in the world. One hit and he’d go down. Tommy acts tough, but Steve’s fought with him enough to know he can beat him.

Carol uses the backs of her calves to hook Steve’s thighs and his attention to angle him towards her.

Gently, he pushes her off his lap then stands up.

He’s got a note waiting for him.

“Nice to see ya, Carol. Tommy, as usual, go fuck yourself.”

Carol grabs hold of his sleeve.

“We’re having a bonfire tonight, you should come. You must be lonely and me and Tommy miss the old gang, you know?” She bites her lip, looks up at him through her lashes. Twirls her hair too. Tommy isn’t looking anywhere near him. “Billy won’t be there to keep us company, so? Wanna come?”

“He finally get tired of watching you guys make out?”

“You know that’s _literally_ not possible.”

 

—

 

Jonathan is standing by his locker. He’d be the last person Steve wants to run into right now, but that spot is tied with Dumbass Tommy and _Nancy_. He’s slouched over, staring at his shoes to looking up at Steve from under his messy bangs. Awkward as ever. But it’s _just_ Jonathan. Not Nancy. Steve can handle Jonathan.

Billy would steamroll right through him. Not backing down for a second. Head held high and fists raised to make room for himself. Billy wouldn’t care so Steve doesn’t.

Steve unlocks his locker, swings the door open without saying anything or giving any sort of acknowledgement to Jonathan. If he wants to talk, he can talk. Steve isn’t going to put in any more effort than he has to.

Like hell is Steve going to let this be easy for him.

“Hey. Um. Steve.” Jonathan says. Steve catches him wincing from the corner of his eye, physically in pain already from this barely even a wannabe conversation.

“Byers.”

There’s a torn off piece of lined notebook paper folded on top of the books sitting inside. Excitement jolts inside of him and he’s _itching_ to grab it and open it.

He slips the paper out, carefully unfolds it. Not caring that Jonathan is right there, still not talking and still being _so annoying_. Jonathan can read it if he wants to. Steve is so far passed giving a damn he’s settled down and built his own castle in Who Gives A Fuck Land.

The writing is in cursive. Neat. Way neater than Steve pictured when he thought of Billy. It’s in blue ink. A little smudged from Billy being left handed.

 

 

> _meet you at 10 fucknut_

Short. To the point. Steve smiles, holding the paper in both his hands. It’s genuinely stupid how happy he is to be called a _fucknut_.

If Tommy wasn’t Tommy and so trigger happy with the spray paint, Steve might thank him for giving him the heads up.

“Talk to Nancy. Please.” Jonathan says, making actual eye contact with Steve and Steve would think _good for him, getting some confidence_ , but he can’t.

He won’t let Jonathan sour this.

“I know I can’t—it’s shitty and wrong what we did to you. And I know I shouldn’t ask you for anything, but. She’s—” Jonathan shuts Steve’s locker, closing the small buffer they had between each other. The door swings an inch from Steve’s nose. “She’s miserable, man. You gotta talk to her.”

Steve folds the note back up, slips it into his pocket and is careful not to crinkle it, and keeps his hand on it while he sizes Jonathan up for what will be the millionth time.

It’s easy to compare himself to Jonathan. An old habit. He used to think he was better than him. Loner. Virgin. Friendless. _Awkward_.

Now he just sees all the spots where Nancy kisses him, the rubbed off lipstick on his lips and cheeks and hands. Sees an older Will who never quite grew comfortable with himself. The origin of Will’s habit of _avoid all possible eye contact_.

Jonathan holding Nancy’s hand between classes.

The two of them fucking.

“Yeah, well, tell her miserable is the flavor of the month.” Steve says. It’s lame and he wouldn’t have the guts to say it to Nancy’s face and Jonathan probably knows it’s mainly meant for him.

Steve makes a point of yanking his locker door back open, ending the conversation right there and stuffs his binder and books inside.

Ditching is back on.

 

—

 

Steve uses the sound system downstairs to blast _Rio_ on a loop loud enough to be heard through the entire house and to drown out the silence of both his parents being gone for another week. Now that it’s sunny out, he opens the curtains. Turns the heater on early. It’s the exact opposite of those dark and damp tunnels.

There’s a lot to get ready. He shoves the college brochures and pamphlets into the buffet in the dining room. Gets everything downstairs _clean enough_ that it isn’t embarrassing. It’s not _mom and dad are coming home in the morning_ level of clean, but it is _Billy might come downstairs for some food_ level.

His room he goes to fucking town on. Gets the vacuum out. Digs out the Pine-sol and scrubs whatever he can and makes everything from his window to his toilet _sparkle_. Changes his sheets and even the pillow cases too. Opens the window to air it out. Rearranges his albums in an order that would make Queen first in the row.

The lamps he’s hesitant to get rid of, but he parses them down to make his room seem like it belongs to someone normal. He hides all the lamps in the hallways closet. As soon as Billy leaves he’s whipping the extension chords back out and plugging them all back in.

He does keep _a couple_ though. He may be keeping his paranoia close to his chest tonight, but that doesn’t mean he’s willing to let himself be surprised and chomped on by the next Upside Down fucker.

Steve double checks he still has a few condoms left over in his desk—three. He doesn’t think he’ll need more, but he doesn’t _know_ what two guys _do_ and what _Billy’s_ expecting to do. If there’s a difference. If condoms are even involved.

When it comes to the rules his parents have set out, the biggest one is he isn’t _under any circumstances_ allowed to have a girl over—alone. His dad had kept telling him _do you remember what happened to your cousin Terrance?_ as though having a baby at sixteen would stop Steve from ever trying to get with a girl.

Parties are a grey area—less than ten people is fine as long as there is absolutely no drinking and _above all else, Steve, no fornication_. Steve has never heard his dad say the word ‘ _sex_ ’ and he can’t actually imagine what that would sound like without becoming deeply, extremely uncomfortable.

Those rules had gone to hell years before when he and Tommy had hit puberty and put two and two together when it came to Steve’s empty house and all the pretty available girls who were just starting to give them a piece of their time.

Steve considers going to the convenience store before it gets dark. Pick up another box just in case. Billy hadn’t given him any clue as to what exactly they would be doing and for all he knows they won’t make it passed the stairs before Billy is done with him and is doing another one of those cool, annoying waves over his shoulder and walks right back out the door.

Out on the back road Billy had gotten close. Then in the library. Even before that there’d been _so many times_ when Billy had got in his face and Steve hadn’t backed off. It could have happened so many times over. It might happen tonight.

And there could be more Steve has no idea about.

Steve fumbles with the vacuum, damn near rips the tube out with how stressed and anxious he is. His mind and then his entire body goes a little fuzzy picturing Billy on the basketball court, sailing the ball right through the net and sticking his tongue out between his teeth, _wagging his tongue at him_. Shirtless. Sweaty. All of him aimed, shot, and hit Steve.

He palms at himself above his jeans. Drops the vacuum. Gets his fly open to get at his dick. He’s got a few hours before ten.

Steve leans against the wall, pinches his eyes shut to concentrate and replays Billy wild and shining on the court. Billy standing in the rain with mud on his face. Billy grinning at Steve with water dripping down his lashes. Billy sitting under the bleachers with his legs spread and his dick thick and hard and pressing against the zipper of his jeans—the look in Billy’s eyes telling him he’d let Steve touch him _if he just went for it_.

Steve knocks his head against the wall and comes thick in his hand and on his shirt and even on the fucking wall. He takes his shirt off and cleans up his hand and the wall. Breathless and tingling he tucks himself away. Balls his shirt up and throws it into his hamper.

He takes Billy’s note out of his pocket, reads it again, smiling to himself. Folds it back up and puts it in his desk drawer.

 

—

 

Around four—4:15, he cannot stop checking his watch, hoping for time to go _faster please_ —he’s got a few outfits laid out on his bed, trying to figure out what he looks good in and out of that what Billy might like without it seeming like he's trying when the walkie talkie starts making noise. It takes him _a good second_ to remember what that noise is at first. The walkie is in his desk drawer. He digs it out and fumbles with which button to push to respond.

Dustin had gone over it at least a million times when Steve had first bought it, but he’d admittedly zoned out pretty quickly.

“What?” He says into it.

There’s crackling then some garbled noises he can’t recognize. He’s about to just put it back in the drawer and call Dustin _like a person_ when finally Dustin starts making actual words.

“ _—come over, over?_ ”

“I missed, like, all of that, dude.” Steve says. “And, uh, over. Yeah.”

“ _—eve, can—we——ton—yeah—no—over._ ”

Steve has no idea what is being said or asked or _whatever_.

He looks around his room for confirmation that _he_ isn’t the problem here and that Dustin is a small, little nutjob. The curtains definitely agree with him. His bed is applauding his patience.

Maybe he should wear the green, long sleeve shirt. It works with his eyes and hair. Nancy said that once and he’s pretty sure she hadn’t been lying about that at least.

There’s another static like noise he can barely make out to be a voice, let alone Dustin’s.

“Okay, so, phones exist, Dustin. Call me. With a _telephone_. This is dumb. And creepy. _Over_.”

He waits and when there’s no response he throws the walkie back in the drawer, shutting it with his hip.

Maybe he’ll just go shirtless. Straight to the point. Fuck it.

 

—

 

Steve moves his bat to the corner of the closet now that its dried off. It would be better in the garage, but he doesn’t want it that far away from him at night. Hopefully Billy won’t notice. Or will just silently think he’s weird and not say anything about it.

Probably not.

He showers and he’s got his hair looking beautiful and thick and like a goddamn wave off the shore of a Hawaiian island. There’s a nervous jittery _thing_ inside of him that says he’s excited and a little to _holy shit_ anxious over what will be happening _very very soon_ , but his hand is steady and he’s styled his hair like a fucking champ.

If Billy _Golden Curls Straight Outta One of Those Old Ass Paintings_ Hargrove isn’t impressed then, well, Steve will be pretty bummed out actually.

He poses in the mirror. Flexes his arms. The sleeves of the shirt he picked hug his biceps and it feels silly, but he feels good too and he needs this boost to stay sane before Billy arrives.

The doorbell rings. Then there’s loud knocking Steve can hear from the second floor. It’s only eight o’clock and Billy doesn’t strike Steve as the kind of guy who comes two hours early or even on time.

But it could be him. Billy is unpredictable and maybe Billy’s got the same jittery buzz in his chest too and maybe Steve is full of it.

Steve fusses with his hair. Does a quick spritz of cologne. Wipes his hands on his jeans. Sweaty palms are becoming too much of a thing with him lately.

Between his room and the front door his heart leaps into his throat and it’s a little scary how that happened so quickly and why it did, but it all abruptly _stops_ when it’s not Billy at the door, but Dustin and Will.

“Uh.” Steve says then Dustin is pushing past him, already in the middle of a conversation Steve doesn’t know the context of. Will shuffles in sheepishly.

“Hi, Steve.” Will says.

He has a sleeping bag strapped to his back. So does Dustin, now that Steve is actually looking at them closer. Any thoughts of there being _something Upside Down related_ wrong disappear.

“What’s going on, guys?”

Dustin is poking around in the _formal living room_ , holding one of his mom’s decorative pillows, the one with golden frills, and pointing at the piano no one other than his little snot-nosed cousin, Scott, knows how to play.

“Dude! You’re loaded!” Dustin presses one of the keys. “I knew you were rich, but holy crap! That’s a baby grand! No, no a freaking _grand_ piano. Oh my god, Steve.”

It’s a Fazioli. His dad bought it for his mom as an anniversary gift despite no one in the house knowing how to play it or ever wanting to learn how to play. Steve is pretty sure it’s what’s keeping them from outright divorcing.

Steve hangs limply onto the doorknob and shuts the door with a sigh.

“Your house is really nice.” Will says.

Steve ruffles his hair so it sticks up in every direction. Cute kid. Cute, awkward, little chicken nugget of a polite kid.

He goes and plucks the pillow out of Dustin’s hand, places it _exactly_ as it was on the couch no one ever sits on unless it’s one of his parents’ parties, then grabs Dustin by his sleeping bag and drags him back to the foyer where Will is.

“So?” Steve says. He crosses his arms. Stares at each of them, waiting for one of them to spill.

“Do you have a girl coming over?” Dustin says.

“ _No._ ” Steve let’s that _o_ drag and hang.

“You’re wearing cologne and your hair is all—“ he waves his hands over his baseball cap, “—puffed up and, like, I think your shirt is ironed.”

“It’s not.”

“We can leave if you—“ Will tries to say, but Dustin cuts him off, “—no, no. We can still stay over, right, Steve? We’ll chill downstairs while you, you know, get _busay_. And then we can reconvene afterwards for all the deets.”

Dustin’s eyebrows wiggle. His fingers tickle the air. Steve’s mouth turns sour.

“Piece of advice: don’t say it like that. Like ever. And I don’t have a date, all right? What are you guys even doing here?”

Dustin gives him a flat look. “You _said_ we could stay over tonight. We talked literally two hours ago? Hello? Remember?”

“Hey, shithead. You didn’t notice I couldn’t hear _anything_ you said?”

“Admittedly, the connection was a little fuzzy.”

“I didn’t even know you were saying _words_ , Dustin. You can’t just—” Steve groans into his hand, “come on, man.”

“The frequency _is_ a little off around here.” Will says, staring at his feet and it’s so not fair how _sad_ this kid can be at the drop of a hat. His eyes are too big and too brown and he definitely beats out Jonathan with the sad puppy dog routine.

Dustin puts a hand on Steve’s elbow. “Please, Steve?”

There’s this _thing_ in the way Dustin asks Steve, with a hundred _please_ ’s underlining it, like if Steve says they can’t hang out tonight, whatever Dustin is trying to prevent will happen and it’ll be _bad_. Sincerely, awfully bad.

Steve can’t say no to that after a week of saying he’s too busy.

“Fine. Yeah, it’s fine. Come on. I’ll show you guys around—take your shoes off, my mom’ll go ballistic otherwise.”

He’ll handle Billy and keep everyone’s streams from crossing. Hopefully.

Probably not.

 

—

 

Will and Dustin turn the den into their _homebase_. Dustin and Will get excited over the big television and VCR and wall to ceiling shelves of VHS tapes—Dustin must have a sense for all things nerdy because he zeroes in on the LaserDisc player Steve’s never used once.

Dustin is gasping over it. _Petting it_.

“How have you not told me you own a LaserDisc player? This is vital need-to-know-like-now information.”

“Sorry?”

His dad’s a collector and why the LaserDisc is even there along with what must be hundreds of VHS tapes. Steve is pretty sure his dad has never watched more than ten of them. The tapes are in like-new condition. Some of them are still in the plastic wrap from the store.

Dustin’s attention can’t be held by the LaserDisc for long before he’s jumping up and looking through the tapes, pulling them out and reading the backs.

Steve leans against the door jam to watch them, trying to think of a plan to coordinate two kids and _Billy Hargrove_ under the same roof without either of them meeting. So far all he’s managed to do is make himself anxious.

“Horror or western?” Dustin says, holding up _The Exorcist_ and _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_ tapes.

Steve wants to say _neither_ considering what he knows about Will, but then this _is_ the same kid who went to see the _Friday the 13th_ sequel twice for some reason he still can’t understand.

Will puts a finger to his lips then points to _The Exorcist_. “Sleepovers aren’t sleepovers without horror movies.”

“Right on.” Dustin goes back to the shelves and starts picking out the horror movies. He gasps. “We have to watch _The Omen_. Like, _we have to._ ”

“Agreed.”

Will sits on the ground between the couch and the coffee table and starts unloading his backpack. Colored pencils and a thick stack of paper that starts to cover the entire surface of the table.

“Oh!” Dustin shouts and there’s a clatter as he tries not to drop all seven of the VHS tapes he has in his hands. He sets them in a stack on the ground then runs over to his own bag, digs out a sheet of wrinkled piece of paper that he smooths out against his leg.

He runs over to Steve, excited.

“So we started a new campaign—it’s like a new story for dungeons and dragons,” Dustin explains quickly before Steve can ask, “I’m working on the story, Will is designing the characters. And since you’re a new member to our party, I made you a character sheet to make it official!”

Dustin holds the paper out to him, but before Steve can see whatever a _character sheet_ is, Dustin pulls it back to his chest.

“Before you read it, in your mind’s eye, I want you to picture Conan the Barbarian meets Robin Hood.”

Steve holds out his hand and Dustin rolls his eyes and gives him the paper. He reads it. Immediately, he wants to ball it up and throw it at Dustin’s head.

“ _Stevious the Savior of Altera?_ What is—what am I reading?”

“The name was Dustin’s idea.” Will says quickly.

“So the name isn’t great. We can change that. That’s the easy part. Normally you’d do these yourself, but. And _hey_ you’re a _paladin_. A holy warrior! It’s so you. Look at your strength—“

Steve knows a little bit about Dungeons and Dragons from what Will and Dustin have told him and what he’d picked up from Mike after a year of dating his sister and spending weekends over at their house. The name isn’t bad, it’s weird—very weird—but it’s _by far_ not the worst part of it.

“Dustin, why does this say my intelligence is a three?”

Dustin’s eyes are a little _too_ big and innocent for him to not be a little shit. “It was random. I rolled dice for the stats.”

“And you got a _three?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _I did._ ”

“ _Sure_.”

Dustin puts a hand to his heart. “I’m offended you think I’d insult you like that.”

Steve icily gives him back the paper. _Rolled dice, my ass_.

“I’m gonna head upstairs for a while. There’s coke in the fridge. Food in the—food place. Don’t break anything. My parents are super anal about their shit and I will throw you under the bus.”

Steve escapes, heads to his bathroom with a new need to check his hair. Maybe change into a different shirt. Refresh his cologne. Billy and _whatever Billy is going to do to him_ looms over his shoulder and _his intelligence is a three_.

_Whatever._

“I told you, you should’ve changed it.” He hears Will say.

Will’s a smart kid.

 

—

 

It’s midnight and Billy isn’t here.

Steve goes through three cigarettes. He smokes leaning out one of the upstairs windows that faces the street and listens for the sound of the camaro. It’s dark and still and quiet.

Billy isn’t coming.

Steve shouldn’t be surprised. If he’d had the nerve to bring it up with Billy instead of sidestepping it completely, grateful for any attention he got—but he’d been too scared to jinx it and have Billy laugh in his face.

_I’m really just the biggest idiot._

Fully embracing and becoming one with his disappointment, he shuts off all the lights upstairs. Goes around the house and locks all the windows and doors. Gets the bat out of his closet. There’s no point in pretending he isn’t a paranoid weirdo now.

Dustin and Will barely give it a second glance when he brings it in with him to the den to join in on watching _The Omen_.

He flops on the couch next to them. It’s a big couch. One where they could all lay on it without touching. The suede cushions are puffy enough to swallow a person whole and so soft he immediately starts to droop, inching closer to dozing off.

Will shows him his drawings after Dustin elbows him _discreetly_ into doing it. The room is dark except for the light coming from the television, but Steve can see how red Will’s face is and how the drawings are actually pretty damn good.

Dustin was actually accurate. _Stevious the Warrior of Altera_ really does look like a cross between Conan and Robin Hood.

They take a break to get a midnight snack. Will makes a turkey and mayonnaise sandwich on wonder bread that’s at least half a foot tall and barely fits on the small plate. Steve watches him carry it to the den, bracing for the sound of a plate breaking on the floor.

Steve sneaks a beer behind the refrigerator door, popping the cap on the counter. The sound he covers with a loud cough. He chugs it fast and doesn’t feel any better. All he feels is put out and down and sour and seriously fuck Billy and his stupid face, like what the fuck was all that anyways.

Billy isn’t here. Probably at the bonfire and meeting up with Miriam Castellano or hooking up with literally any girl— _or guy_ —he looks at because he’s _Billy_ and he can have _anyone_ so why the hell would he be here with _Steve_ on a fucking Friday night.

He’s grossed out by himself and how much he cares and how damn much he wishes he knew Billy’s phone number or had any excuse to ask for Max’s and he really wants another beer.

He grabs the bags of pretzels and cheese puffs, opens them too hard and half of everything goes flying to the floor—something to be cleaned up by Tomorrow Steve—pours what’s left of them both into one bowl.

Dustin lingers, picking at his own sandwich—a mix of bologna and cheese. He doesn’t even look up when the bags pop or when Steve not so kindly tells them all to go to hell.

It’s clear he wants to say something, but he stays quiet.

Steve nibbles on a pretzel. Weighs whether or not it would make him a _downright no good person_ if he went for the rest of the six-pack before Dustin notices.

Too big of a risk of him drunkenly saying _something stupid_ or, well, crying so he sighs and leans against the counter, puts a hand on his hip then feels a little too much like his mom and decides crossing his arms is a much better strategy here.

“What’s up?”

Dustin startles. “Nothing.”

“Okay.” Steve says slowly. “Is it a girl?”

“No.” Dustin scoffs, snorts too. Lays that _no_ on thick.

“School?”

“I’m, like, the top of my class, so, _no_.”

“Bragging makes you go bald, just so you know.”

“That’s a lie and impossible and also you’re full of it and my hair is majestic.”

“ _Fine_. Bragging is a turn off and girls will never date you and you’ll die alone, unloved, and no one will remember your short _majestic_ ass. That one any better?”

Dustin’s mouth hangs open and, _yeah_ , Steve can admit he went _a bit_ too far. It’s hard finding the balance when you’re friends with thirteen year olds who haven’t breached into the special fucked up place where puberty makes everything more awful and way better and Steve is a weirdo who doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time and gets his hopes up over nothing.

“Mean. Really mean, dude.” Dustin says.

“Yeah, that was a little—sorry, my heads up my own ass today.” Steve flashes a smile at him—quick and probably not even a little reassuring. “What’s wrong?”

“Way, _way_ up your ass. Like, you’re lost up there, _dude_. What the hell?”

“I, yeah, I get it. I said sorry. _Sorry_. Okay?”

Steve expects Dustin to tell him how half-assed his apology is, the kid could nitpick better than anyone—though Mike still retains the ‘ _Most Annoying_ ’ title of the nerd group in Steve’s very accurate opinion.

Dustin stalls.

“How’d your project go?”

Steve blanks, having no idea what he’s talking about. “What project?”

“The project? The one you ditched us for all week? The big important _I can’t hang today_ project?”

 _Oooh_. “Yeah. It was—I got a C.”

Dustin frowns, he’s _sad_ for him. Steve has somehow managed to surround himself with dorks who get straight A’s. _This_ , right now and right here, is bullshit.

He will never tell Dustin a C is a _great_ grade for him.

“Spill, dude.” Steve says. “Or not, you know. If you want to hang out in here, go for it. There’s ice cream in the freezer. Rocky Road always makes me feel better when I’m having a bad day. Actually, that’s not a bad idea right now.”

“It’s just.” Dustin’s eyes dart to the den. _Will._ Right.

“You guys get in a fight?” He tries to picture Will and Dustin doing more than just arguing, but actual _using your fists to hurt_ fighting and he can’t. It just doesn’t fit them.

This is what his mom must have meant. Will and Dustin just don’t have the temperament to go at each other, it’s not who they are together.

Dustin shakes his head, “we didn’t fight. It’s just. Sometimes—and I’m not, like, blaming him or anything, but sometimes he gets, you know , _quiet_ and—“ Dustin fidgets with a pretzel, breaking it into tiny pieces. “Like, Lucas and Mike are always hanging out with Max and Eleven now and we don’t really—and Jonathan is, um, well,“ Dustin glances up at Steve and quickly speeds on.

“I’m happy for them and all and like I’m not jealous or anything, but what about Will, you know? It’s just us most of the time and I don’t know what to do when he gets like _this_. I’m not Mike or his brother or his mom.”

Dustin wipes at his eyes, which is _alarming_.

“Hey. _Hey_. Dustin. It’s okay.” Steve pats him on the back and leaves his hand on his small shoulder. Steve says, “you’re doing your best, you’re being a good friend.”

Dustin sniffles. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and leaves behind a wet trail and a pathetic face still on the verge of tears. This kid could go down into fucking demodog city with a smile, but not being able to help a friend is what makes him lose it, _jesus christ, this kid._

Steve cringes and grabs the closest thing he has on hand—a green and blue striped dishtowel—and hands it to Dustin.

Dustin blows his nose, making a high-pitched trumpet sound.

Steve scratches at the back of his neck. He almost shut the door in their faces tonight at the loosest, vaguest prospect of possibly, maybe getting off if Billy wasn’t full of shit and Steve had the guts to go through with it.

“Will’s lucky to have you.” Steve says, awkward and stilted because he does mean it. Wishes he could say Mike and Lucas will lose their interest in girls, but knows it only gets worse from here for someone like Dustin.

“Seriously, you’re a good kid. You’re annoying as hell, like, a lot of the time, dude, but you’re a solid guy and you know what? Your hair is majestic. Almost as awesome as mine.”

Dustin’s gives him a watery smile. Slowly, he’s perking up.

“You’re compliments really need some work.”

“That’s just what happens when you have a three for intelligence.”

Dustin grits his newly minted teeth, all thoughts of being left out and not knowing how to help Will thrown up with his hands.

“ _It’s random, Steve_.”

“Whatever you wanna say to yourself.”

“Oh my god, _stop_.”

 

—

 

Dustin and Will are slumped over on the couch, asleep. Their sleeping bags rolled out on the ground in front of them. Their plates are on the table, licked clean. The credits are rolling on the screen. Steve is nearly asleep too with an empty half-gallon of Rocky Road container on his chest when he hears it.

There’s a thud upstairs.

His eyes snap open. He’s _awake_. Every hair on the back of Steve’s neck, on his arms, on his fucking legs stands on end. He stops breathing. Waits. Dustin and Will are still sleeping.

He grabs his bat.

There’d been a point in the night where Steve had wanted to keep his usual paranoia to himself in front of the kids and a possible Billy _and_ had been smacked in the face with disappointment that he’d turned all the lights off in the house and kept them off.

At the time he’d been comfortable between then and two seconds ago. With Dustin and Will in the house the silence didn’t feel dangerous or _about to be_ dangerous.

It’s a decision he deeply regrets standing at the foot of the stairs and looking up at the second story. He’s lived here his whole life, seen these walls and doors and the fifteen stairs leading up to them a million times. In the dark everything changes. The familiar becomes strange and scary and this is why he shouldn’t care what Billy thinks because his lamps would be on right now.

Steve is eighteen years old and he’d die for a fucking nightlight right now.

There’s another thud. It’s on the left side of the house. Where his room is.

He creeps up the stairs, there’s no other way to put it. He’d like to think he’s channeling Bruce Lee with how light his footing is as he tries to sneak into his own bedroom and not go bug-eyed listening for _any_ noise that isn’t the credits to _The Omen_ downstairs. He knows it’s bullshit, but it’s a nice thought.

Bruce Lee would be so embarrassed of him right now. Shit, _Dustin_ would be and Dustin actually knows who he is and _likes_ him somehow.

His door squeaks when he hedges it open and peaks inside.

Still his room. The same it’s always been. No evil monsters. He feels stupid and is laughing at himself and the sweat sticking to the back of his neck has gone cold when he hears _it_ again.

Steve stops breathing, his entire focus on that one _noise_. All his concentration is on trying to decipher _what_ he just heard.

It’s definitely coming from somewhere near. Like, _near_. Like he could throw his bat blindly and hit it.

He keeps the lights off, wanting to have the element of surprise, or anything close to it. That and the bat is all he has going for him.

He checks under his bed—nothing—then grabs the flashlight he has hidden under his pillow, turns it on and checks again and then his closet.

Nothing.

Nearly has a heart attack checking his shower and bath, expecting a big, toothy mouth to latch onto his face.

Then he hears the noise again. It’s outside— _right outside his motherfucking window_.

He could just not open it. Go back downstairs and outside to see what the hell is going on from a safe distance.

But then Dustin and Will would be left alone and would get caught up in it and Steve is _right here_ and whatever it is is _right there_ so Steve takes a deep breath, unlocks the latch and throws the window open, stepping back to get a good grip on his bat, raising it over his head, ready to start bashing.

But nothing comes through.

There’s another _thud_.

He approaches the window slowly, shines his flashlight down on whoever or whatever is making that noise and—

“Get that shit out of my face, Harrington. Fuckin’ monkey balls.“ Billy growls at him, and his hand comes flying up at Steve, pulling himself through the window, awkwardly catching his foot on the sill and stumbling.

 

—

 

Billy struggles to stand, swaying side to side on his feet and rubbing at his eyes. A lit cigarette hanging from his mouth falls to the floor and Steve watches in horror as Billy goes off instinct and snubs it out by driving it into the carpet with the toe of his boot.

Steve stares dumbly at him. Pissed, but relieved. Not a monster. It’s Billy. Just Billy Hargrove crawling through his window in the middle of the night, hours late, to ruin his just-vacuumed carpet.

“What are you doing?” Steve hisses and because he can’t help himself. “Are you okay?”

“Trying to be—to be surprising. Shit.” Billy twists his head to look around the room, walking into Steve’s desk and almost pitching over. Steve catches him by the wrist.

There’s a distinct smell of alcohol coming off of him. The glazed over, bloodshot eyes, even in the dark, make it obvious.

Steve recoils, putting a few good feet between them.

“You—are you drunk?” Steve says.

“ _No_.”

“You’re drunk. What the hell, man?”

“I don’t _get_ drunk.”

“Right. Cause you’re _so cool_.” Steve says and if his voice actually does _catch_ like it felt like it just did, he’s going to throw himself out his own window. He tosses the flashlight onto his bed. It bounces and rolls off.

Steve goes to flick the light switch so he can properly glare at Billy, but Billy grabs him by the arm and stops him, yanks him close with no effort at all on Steve’s part to keep him from doing it.

They’re nose to nose. Billy’s gone cross eyed. His grin is crooked and sloppy and _off_. Steve’s eyes start to water from how strong the alcohol is on his breath.

“Jesus, dude. Did you drive here like this?”

“Why’re you asking all these boring ass questions? Thought you were fun.” Billy says. Tightens his grip on Steve’s arm to slide down to his wrist, thumb pressing into that soft patch of skin.

Billy’s hand is icy and calloused. Steve’s breath hitches and doesn’t release.

“I’ve fucked so many fucking girls,” Billy says, pressing his lips to Steve’s neck. “So fucking many, Steve. Stevie. I’m fucking _amazing_ —the motherfucking _best_ at eating pussy, Stevie.”

His other hand comes up and grabs Steve’s shirt hard, loosens up to pat at his chest, play with fabric, smooths it down all the way to Steve’s stomach where he pushes his hand underneath the hem and makes Steve _jump_.

Billy’s skin is absolutely freezing and his hand is going higher, all the way up to his chest.

“You are so _drunk_ , dude.” Steve mutters. Billy nips at his neck, a quick little too-hard bite leaving Steve hard so he gives him the best glower two beers at one in the morning can do. “You invited yourself over with all that _I’m so cool, gonna rock your world, bring the fire_ crap and then you’re _late_. And _drunk_. And—high? Are you fucking high right now?”

Billy’s eyes are bloodshot to hell and Steve realizes that crooked smile is off because it’s the same damn smile he had at the quarry. _High_.

“Possibly and ‘m not drunk.” Billy says, insulted as though Steve has gone too far passed the line. “Fucking buzzed, maybe. ”

“ _Buzzed_ would have been a third of whatever bottle you swallowed whole and—holy shit, _shit_ you’re bleeding.” Steve startles and yanks his hand out of Billy’s grip then grabs Billy’s left hand.

There’s a slash across his palm that’s hard to see as there’s blood all over him, _gushing out of him_ , and Steve’s entire stomach clenches at the sight.

Billy pulls his hand out of Steve’s shirt, blinks down at the cut, bored and swaying like he can’t feel it or just doesn’t care or doesn’t understand what’s happening.

Then his eyes slowly shift, locking onto the bat still in Steve’s hand.

“Why do you have the—the fuckin’ murder-bat?”

“Because I thought there was a monster.” Steve says, not caring how it sounds. Billy is fucked out of his gourd right now. How he climbed the side of the house without snapping his neck might just be proof god exists or the devil has his favorites or that Billy is the luckiest guy in Hawkins.

Steve drops the bat, leans it against the wall out of Billy’s reach.

Billy gets a weird look on his face. Eye’s wide and watery. There’s a beat and then he mumbles, mouth tacky, “m’not a monster.”

“No shit. You’re just a drunken idiot bleeding to death on my carpet. Thanks.”

Billy snaps out of his daze and snarls. “Such a fucking drama queen. It’s a _paper cut_.”

The blood keeps dripping down onto the floor, making a bigger and bigger mess with no signs of stopping. The slash starts to look more like an attempted-amputation to Steve.

“Why are you always bleeding so much all the time, like, what the shit, Hargrove? All you do is be a dick and then bleed all over the place.” Steve says, annoyed and concerned and fucking _annoyed_ how much he genuinely cares. He’s waving Billy’s hand at Billy and Billy still doesn’t seem to _get it_. “Do you even have a hand left, how is it holding together like that? Is that bone—shit—okay. I got—a—a first aid thing. Hold on.”

But Billy grabs his wrist again and doesn’t let him go. He latches onto Steve and keeps him close, walking him backwards. Always pushing and pushing and Steve just goes with it. It’s the shock of all the blood, at having Billy in his room after a night of waiting for him.

His back hits the wall with a thud that Steve swears is loud enough to shake the entire house. Billy is crowding him in until his room disappears and all he can see is Billy’s lip curling and blood.

“Thought we agreed no more fighting?” Steve says.

“Does this look like a fight to you, Harrington?” Billy says. “Knew you had a wild side under all that vanilla.”

“You’re hurt.”

Billy’s leg slides between Steve’s thighs.

“And you’re hard.”

Billy is solid and his leg is so firm. Steve gasps, makes this awfully high pitched noise when Billy keeps grinding his leg against Steve’s hard on, so he doesn’t do all that much to stop Billy from shoving his wrist against the wall above his head.

Billy smoothes his bleeding hand up Steve’s chest, his neck and circles around his throat then pinches his jaw. He pins Steve against the wall, keeping him from moving or looking away. Steve can feel Billy’s pulse beating through his gnarled hand. The softness of his hair brushing along his cheek, the smell of hairspray and heady cologne dabbed behind his ears.

Billy presses his lips, his nose, against Steve’s cheek, scraping his teeth along the line of Steve’s neck, bites softly at him, licks broad lines just under his ear like he knows this makes Steve’s knees go weak.

“If you’re gonna bite me, do it somewhere else,” Steve says. “I don’t want to have to explain why my face looks like a chew toy.”

“Always so fucking _funny_.”

Billy sucks on his neck and Steve goes limp. He closes his eyes and the pent up part of him comes out and let’s Billy use his soft lips to suck and at his neck, wet and hot and bites at him again. Too hard. Too good. Teeth sinking into his skin and Steve jerks, Billy's hold on Steve tightens with every harsh breath Steve pants out, fingers digging in, painful now.

Billy’s voice is rough and quiet.

“You ever get sucked off by a fag before, _Steve_?”

“ _Hargrove_.”

“No one sucks dick better than a cock thirsty fag, Stevie, don’t you know that? What the hell do you cunt— _country_ —” Billy laughs to himself, wild eyed and truly lost in whatever drunken haze he’s gone into, ”—what the fuck do you bitch boys do out here anyways? _Fuck cows?_ ”

“Jesus.”

“Let me suck you.”

“You’re wasted.”

“Come on.”

“Dude.”

Billy pouts, which is ridiculous. “Why not? I want to. You want me to.”

“Hey, dum-dum. You’re drunk. And high. And—fuck, you have more blood on the outside than the inside now”

“Who cares.” Billy waves it all off. He licks his lips, leans in even closer somehow to breathe into Steve’s ear, “my mouth is right here, baby. Lemme suck you, Stevie. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I—“ Steve stumbles right into the memory of every night this week and he flushes and he’s pissed off, angry with himself and Billy’s satisfied smirk.

“You jerk off to me?”

“Don’t.”

Billy’s lips are soft on his neck, light over the bite mark. “What do you make me do in that fucked head of yours, Stevie?”

“Goddamnit, Hargrove— _Billy_. Let go.” Steve puts a hand on Billy’s wrist, his grip slips, but he tries again and digs his nails in, pries Billy off of him. Slams his hand away. Rips his wrist out from under where Billy’s had it pinned above his head and shoves him away so there’s breathing room between them.

Steve is panting and stupid and _hard_ and he’ll probably be hard for the next month. Needing a second to think without Billy all over him, he wipes his face off, but his hand’s tacky and wet with _fucking blood_ so he pulls up the collar of his shirt and wipes himself off with it.

He glares at a barely standing Billy.

“You’re gonna clean up and then I’ll—fucking I don’t—I’ll put all the bandaids on you or something. You probably have to go to the ER for that.”

Billy sneers, the power of it lost from how he’s wavering on his feet. Drinking and bleeding all over the place don’t mix well apparently.

“Fuck you.” He says.

“So original.” Steve bites back. “If you want to go die, you can do it outside. Otherwise sit down so you don’t hurt yourself more than you already have, you fat headed idiot.”

“Fuck. You.”

“I will kick your ass to the floor if I have to.” Steve points down to his _oh so ruined_ carpet. “ _Sit_.”

“Like you could. Had to have a little girl fight for ya last time.”

“And you don’t have any plates to bash into my head, so I guess we’re even.” Steve says. Tears at his hair, frustrated. He’s got Billy’s blood drying on him and Billy is swaying more and more and if he does die in Steve’s room, Steve is going to murder him and he _really_ means it this time.

There’s no guessing where Billy’s moods will go. He’s quick to change, jumping from pissed off to making eyes at him and Steve can’t even keep up with him when he’s sober.

He sighs. _Billy Hargrove. Billy Hargrove. Billy Hargrove. Always on my fucking mind._

“Will you please just sit down so I can strap a bandaid to you or _something?_ Please, Billy? You’re hurt and I really don’t want you making it worse. You gotta sit down before you pass out.” Steve says, trying to show how much he doesn't want Billy to fall over and die and that he does actually want to help and if Billy could just _calm down please_.

Billy stills, his eyebrows furrowing—confused. He changes, then. All that anger must have been bled out of him because he seems to just—fall. His shoulders slump. He holds up his bleeding hand, sticks a thumb into the cut. He’s looking back at Steve with _that look_ again when Steve had given him a cookie in the styx. Like when Bill thought Steve had called him a monster.

Unsure. Hurt. Steve doesn't know what to do with a Billy without his ear-busting confidence and it takes the fight out of him too.

Billy wipes at his eyes with his arm, there’s blood smeared on his face now. Steve’s eyes have adjusted to the dark and what little light in the room from outside has caught on to the wet corners of Billy’s eyes.

“Don’t pretend.” He says.

After a tense moment where neither one of them move and Billy must realize—even drunk out of his mind—that he doesn’t want Steve to be seeing him like this, Billy crosses the room. Heads for the only exit Steve isn’t blocking.

Steve gets some air in his chest and swiftly races Billy to the window—shuts it. Locks it. Closes the curtains before Billy can flee and Steve can realize this is all a bad idea getting worse by the second.

Billy’s face has twisted up into something familiar this time. He’s pissed off. Steve has locked himself in a room with an angry, beefy lion who’s already bitten him.

They stare each other down. Steve becoming relentless, a stronghold, at Billy’s teary eyes. He can’t let Billy leave like this. It wouldn’t be good for him or safe.

Then Billy covers his mouth, eyes bulging, and Steve yelps. Knows _exactly_ where this is heading, looks for the trash bin he’s had in the same place for the last eighteen years of his life, but has now been moved to who the fuck knows where.

Billy turns around so his back is to Steve and then he’s throwing up on Steve’s bed. Steve finds the bin and shoves it in front of Billy.

He stands there with his hands raised, about to hold Billy’s hair back for him or rub that spot between his hunched over, heaving shoulders. Unsure if he should touch him, if it would make things worse or not.

Billy whimpers—the softest, and most _not Billy_ sound Steve has ever heard and Steve _can’t_ think anymore. Stops hesitating. He puts his hand on Billy’s back and rubs.

“You’ll be all right. Get it all out. You’re okay. _You’re okay, Billy_.” Steve says quietly. He’s been fucked up like this himself. Not this bad, but close enough. _It sucks_. The little pained noises Billy makes twist his chest inside out.

Catching up with the moment—with everything—Steve’s head spins. He rubs in circles. Big ones. Small ones. Shushing Billy in the sweet way his mom would when he was a kid. Doesn’t stop telling him _you’re gonna be okay_. Billy doesn’t shove him away and Steve hopes he’s helping when the whimpering starts to fade away.

Billy looks over his shoulder. For just a second their eyes meet—all Steve can comprehend in that short moment is _Billy’s crying, oh hell_ —then the bin is toppling to the floor and Billy’s knees go out.

Steve barely catches him under his arms before they both hit the floor, Steve breaking Billy’s fall.

He only has enough time to think _he better not be dead_ and _he’s heavy_ and _why is he so damn cold?_ before the lights are on and there in the doorway are Dustin and Will, standing in their pjs holding a butcher’s knife and one of his dad’s golf clubs.

Dustin fumbles with the knife when he sees them. Drops it on the floor. Bends to pick it up so quick his hat falls off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for such a long wait between chapters, the short answer for this is: life. The long answer is: back to back to back (to back) health issues came up and put a damper on everything. Fun times.
> 
> You may have noticed there are now five chapters instead of three, that's because the original outline for the story changed dramatically and chapter three ballooned up and I could not post a 20k+ chapter. I just couldn't do it.
> 
> Thank you everyone who stuck with this after the long wait! Forgive any typos, I'm only human and I fix all the ones I catch.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com) if you want to come and chat about Billy being a mess and Steve being Steve.


	4. [2/3]

“It’s fine.” Steve says what he always says. Fine, fine, fine, fine, totally and completely _fine_.

There’s blood and vomit all over his room and Billy and Steve. The smell is rancid. Billy is limp and unconscious on the floor.

It’s not _fine_.

It’s all pretty fucking gross.

Steve wriggles and squeezes himself out from under Billy, being careful to turn him on his side.

There’s this short pause where Steve and Dustin and Will look at each other and take in the room, which is _a lot_ worse with actual lighting. Billy still out and flat on his back with chunks on his face and blood _literally_ everywhere is definitely a thing that is not and will never be even years from now—no matter how much Steve would appreciate it—fine.

Dustin is struggling to talk, mouth opening and closing. Will’s pale and hugging Steve’s dad’s golf club close to his chest. Steve fidgets with his hair and there’s blood drying and matting it into thick chunks so it cracks a little.

Billy is still passed out. And hurt.

The scene isn’t good and it won’t get any better until Steve snaps out of it so he does just that. Claps his hands together, making both Dustin and Will jump, their eyes going wider than their heads. He can see the questions about to burst through the dam of their closed mouths and since that’s a no-go and a big ole _no thank you_ too, Steve side-steps it all completely.

“You two—“ Steve says, “—you get his feet. We’re moving him in there—to the tub.”

Steve juts his thumb out to point over his shoulder at the bathroom.

Dustin is the first to put his weapon down and get one of Billy’s legs. Will takes another few seconds to _breathe_ and unclamp his fingers to lean the golf club on the wall. His hands are trembling, but he takes the other leg.

Together they carry Billy the few feet to the bathroom. Steve uses his elbow to turn the knob of his bathroom door, then kicks it open and manhandles Billy to sit in the bath and under the shower head. Flicks the bathroom light on and gets a better look at what he will now and only ever refer to this as The Billy Situation.

Steve tries to think of how he’s going to actually explain this and realizes there’s really nothing he can say to Dustin and Will that will make sense as to _why_ Billy is here. They aren’t friends. They don’t hang out. Dustin only ever saw them together that one time under the bleachers and before that Billy had been pounding his face into linoleum. Giving him a snickerdoodle and then having him fix his tire doesn’t exactly make them besties all of a sudden.

Trying to scrape together a convincing lie with this hot mess is impossible.

He holds his hands up before Dustin or Will can start in on him. Mainly Dustin.

“You guys wait outside—just for a couple of minutes!” Steve says in a rush when Dustin opens his mouth. “I’m gonna wrap his hand. Could you just shove my sheets into the washer?”

Will is quick to leave. Dustin lingers.

“I don’t like this.” Dustin says.

“I’m fine.” Steve smiles. He knows how he looks—crazy—from the _very brief_ interaction he had with the mirror. “Seriously. Totally fine. You know how to work a washing machine, right?”

“Duh.” Dustin says. He doesn’t move right away, he doesn’t want to. Steve pats his back, tries to say _nothing to stress about here_ with his face.

Dustin shuffles out, feet sticking to the tiles. Steve yells out a quick _thanks!_ to the two of them and shuts the door. Locks it too.

It’s a lot of blood. Steve doesn’t know how it’s possible to bleed so much and still be alive enough to keep being an aggressive weirdo douchenozzle, but that’s Billy for you. Think he’s gonna turn left and then he goes and calls himself _a cock thirsty fag_ and tries to suck your dick. Fucking priceless.

“What the hell was that, man?” Steve whispers, not wanting either Dustin or Will to hear him. Billy doesn’t respond.

Under the fluorescent lights Steve can finally see everything. Billy’s got styled curls and dark lashes and maybe even a little bit of something glossy on his lips that survived. He’s wearing a blue shirt that was nice at some point before it got soaked and a pair of jeans he hasn’t seen on Billy before. The blood is so bright and it blankets him.

None of it makes sense. Billy is dressed up and wasted. The two don’t fit together. Putting effort in only to come here blitzed.

Steve stares at Billy’s face, his overly ruddy complexion.

Catches his reflection. His hair is everywhere and he’s got Billy’s blood all over his face and neck and shirt and hands and _jesus it really is everywhere_. It turns his stomach to see how much blood Billy lost.

There’s panic growing in his chest that hadn’t been there when Billy had shoved himself at Steve. He steadies himself. Finds his footing.

First thing first then. Get Billy cleaned up. He gets the first aid kit out, rummages for a big pad of gauze. It’s a temporary wrap, just for the shower and just to hopefully keep him from bleeding anymore, slow it down at least.

He holds Billy’s hand. It’s like touching ice and Steve doesn’t know a whole lot about biology, but that’s not how that should be. _He’s too cold_.

Steve doesn’t think when he leans down just that much more and breathes hot air on Billy’s fingers. Can smell the nicotine there. He gets Billy’s other hand and does the same then tries to rub some heat into them when that doesn’t do all that much.

He turns Billy’s hurt hand around so it’s palm side down to see, thankfully, there’s nothing wrong with the other side. Whatever he cut himself on hadn’t gone all the way through. He would have to drag Billy downstairs and to the hospital if it had and judging by his reaction to the suggestion, it would go _real well_.

Steve holds a towel under Billy’s hand and dumps half the bottle of hydrogen peroxide over the cut. Steve watches Billy’s face for any sign he might wake up, but he doesn’t twitch or flinch or react at all.

The blood clears away to show a nasty gash. Seeing it makes Steve wince. How Billy could even move his hand—if Billy can play basketball after this, he’d be shocked.

He wraps Billy in waterproof gauze. His mom had really gone all out on this kit after his fight with Jonathan. He’ll thank her when she comes home. Or not. Probably not. That would lead to questions and conversations Steve doesn’t want to have. Talking to his mom is already tough enough.

Wrapped up and hopefully not about to die, Steve stands up. Looks at his work. Feels a small flicker of accomplishment. The nights gone to hell, but Billy’s in the tub and his entire left hand is wrapped tight. One for the scoreboard. Someday he might actually get in the lead.

Looking at Billy, Steve grabs a handful of toilet paper, wads it up and cleans up Billy’s chin and mustache. Grabs one of the little hand towels from under the sink and wets it. Wipes off the blood smeared all over Billy’s face too, tries to clean him up as much as he can. He can’t stand the idea of just leaving him or anyone up here messed up like this.

Cleaned up, the bruises around his eyes and nose stand out. A little purple and blue, fading out to yellow. _That was me,_ Steve thinks. They’re hot under Steve’s fingers, burning when the rest of Billy is so cold.

He makes sure to turn Billy’s head slightly to the side just in case.

Steve washes up quick, scrubs at his hands first then wets a towel to do his face, get at his ears. Most of it comes off and the panic, the queasiness eases away.

 

—

 

The bed’s been stripped clean. The trash bag in the bin is gone. The blood spots on the carpet are now damp and only slightly less awful than before. A new wave of feeling like shit overcomes Steve. They’re good kids and he ditched them all week for a _chance_ with Billy.

Steve flicks on every light he passes in the hallway. Reaches around the doorframe to get to his parent’s room. The house is going to light up the whole block.

Dustin and Will are in the laundry room, loading up the washing machine and using _way too much_ detergent.

Dustin jumps on him.

“What happened? Is Billy dead? Did you murder him? Should we call Hop? I think we should call Hop. I don’t think he’ll turn you in and he has a truck and trucks are good for moving a body.” Dustin says, words running together. “ _Did you murder him, Steve?!_ ”

“What about the snickerdoodle truce?” Will says.

From their reactions, Steve sort of wants to die. He and Billy are actual children.

“It had to be self defense, right? _It had to be._ I’ll be your alibi. You are _not_ going to prison. We can bury him by the demodog. I’ll get the shovel. Will, you get trash bags. Steve, you get Billy’s car.”

“We’re not calling Hop and Billy’s not dead and _I didn’t kill anyone, Dustin_.”

Dustin isn’t buying it. “There’s so much blood, what else am I supposed to think?”

“That I’m not a murderer maybe?”

“We all make mistakes sometimes and I guess murder can be a mistake if _you_ do it and, you know, it could be worse.” Dustin tries to smile at him, reassure him, but he comes off as just a nervous kid. “You didn’t off anyone we _like_. It’s just _Billy_.”

It could be worse though.

Billy could be awake and could have heard _that_ and Dustin would be dead then Steve would be next and he’d probably end up getting a boner while Billy strangles him to death—his dick is a weird pervert and would probably get off on it. Will would be left alone to explain it to the cops while Billy is on some cliff ripping his shirt off and howling at the moon.

Steve is so tired. He really is. He crouches and then falls back and sits down on the tile, groaning into his hands. How did he think this night would end? He’s no Miriam Castellano.

Dustin backtracks. “Not that—I mean. Like. Murder’s bad. I get that. And Billy is technically a human so. I’m sure maybe his mom likes him and she’d be bummed out. Why’s he here, anyways? And why’s he bleeding and, like, not awake?”

Dustin doesn’t care he’s having an embarrassing breakdown. He’s persistent.

And that is _the_ question and there’s no answer. Not even a half-assed answer. He’s Steve Harrington and life is just a series of bullshit moments on top of slightly shittier bullshit moments.

Steve says, vaguely and with no intent on ever being more detailed, “he needed help on a school project and, I don’t know, he had too many or something. _It’s Hargrove_.”

Dustin doesn’t believe him at all. His face scrunches up, his voice pitched high. “From you?”

Steve’s head snaps up. _Seriously?_

Will says, mostly to himself by the way his head is hanging and he’s covering his mouth, “Dustin, no.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Steve says, glaring at Dustin.

“ _Nothing_.”

Dustin turns away from him, to Will. They share a look that only digs into Steve more. Who knew between Dustin and Billy, Dustin would be the bigger dick tonight.

Dustin tries again. “Well, you’re not exactly, like, um—“

“What?”

“Well.”

“No, say it. I want you to say it.”

“You’re not like the most—you’re smart in other ways.“

“What ways?”

“You know— _other_ ways.”

“I knew it, I fucking knew it. You didn’t roll any dice, did you? You think I’m stupid. A three, Dustin? Seriously?”

“You don’t even know out of how many!”

“It’s a three, dude. I think I can figure out a _three_ means I’m an idiot.”

“Hey, I didn’t say you were an idiot! And I’m not the one who murdered Billy freaking Hargrove in his own freaking room and left evidence literally everywhere!”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“You killed a man, Steve—“

“—oh my god. How many times—he’s not dead, Dustin. He’s just _drunk_ and he has a—a slight fucking cut.”

Dustin throws his hands in the air, done with it and Steve is right there with him.

“ _So_ what’s the plan? Are we really not gonna call Hop? This is _Billy Hargrove_ we’re talking about.”

“He helped us out like two days ago.”

“And he almost murdered us like a month ago.”

There’s no argument for that one. Steve nods. It’s true. Billy was on a rampage. He doubts Dustin will accept _he unlocked my car and smoked weed with me_ as a reference for Billy.

“He doesn’t seem so bad.” Will says and he’s unsure, only ever hearing what happened at his house versus what he’s seen of Billy so far—not the worst opinion he could have of Billy, but Steve’s still on his own.

“He’s not—he’s,” Steve stumbles to a pause, not sure what to say to convince them. “He’s better. Not as bad as you think.”

Dustin snorts. “Uh huh, okay. So he’s not gonna go full Terminator on us?”

“He’d have left us to deal with the car on our own if he was. He didn’t have to help, but he did, so. We can’t just—“ Steve waves his hand, trying to say _Billy cried and I can’t leave him alone_ without actually saying it.

Dustin isn’t fully onboard and Steve doubts he ever will be. Will, Steve thinks, is just trying to be positive.

Steve rubs his hands up and down his legs. Gets up. Straightens his back. Shoves his shoulders back and thinks _confidence_ because that’s what’s needed right now.

“The plan is turn the shower on and wake him up and hope he’s had a good nap.”

Will is biting his lip, uncertain. Dustin’s cringing. So Steve’s plan isn’t great, but it’s also not _that_ bad.

“It’s gonna be fine, guys.” Steve says. “I got this handled.”

“Is this Plan A or Plan B? Or are we way down in the alphabet?”

“It’s Plan _The Only Plan I Have_.”

Dustin’s not reassured. Neither is Will. Or Steve, actually.

Dustin says, “so, then, like, is this in cement? Or is there some wiggle room for negotiation?”

 

—

 

There’s a short argument.

Steve tells Dustin and Will to stay downstairs. He _can_ handle Billy—drunk or not—on his own without anyone else as his back up. He can throw a punch. Somehow they don’t believe it despite at least Dustin having seen him. _He can hold his own in an actual fight, okay._ Getting some ceramic to the back of the head isn’t a fair way to judge a guy’s skills.

Dustin isn’t convinced at all and he’s got this scrunched up expression saying he’s going to sneak back up here if Steve doesn’t put his foot down hard. Will’s radiating guilt in those big eyes with a foot out the door already.

The chances of Billy being pissed off when he wakes up are—well, Steve is thinking Billy is going to go left, so maybe he’ll go right and will be a little bubble of sunshine. His best bet is, though, Billy will be less of an SOB if Steve is alone without Dustin and Will making the whole Situation more complicated.

Besides, Steve is hoping Billy will be coherent enough to talk, but that’s probably expecting more than he should and if there’s one thing he’s learned tonight it’s _don’t expect shit ‘cause you get shit_ and Steve is all filled up on shit, thanks.

Steve locks the bathroom door behind himself. Presses his ear against the door to listen for any footsteps, but Dustin and Will seemed to have kept their word. They’re staying downstairs.

A quick check of The Billy Situation shows he’s still out and the bandage is still on. The white gauze is tinged pink on the outside, but he figures it’ll be all right for the next few minutes.

Now.

He’s done this a thousand times for both Tommy and Carol. It’s just the thing you do when your friends get wasted and you have to get them to wake the fuck up. It’s not a big deal. It’s _nothing_.

Yet.

Steve breathes deeply, pumps himself up. This is absolutely nothing. Just helping Billy out.

Sitting on the lip of the tub, Steve twists and bends to get at Billy’s pockets. It’s a weird angle, hurting his wrist. He’s only half scared Billy will wake up and think Steve is _up to something weird_ , but Billy really is dead to the world and he manages to empty out Billy’s pockets.

Keys—Steve pockets them. Wallet. Lighter. Seven condoms— _jesus_. A half-pack of cigarettes—Steve pulls one out, ready to light the fuck up— _seven condoms_ —and, oh, _there it is,_ Billy’s got half of a blunt left.

Steve puts _that_ in his own pocket. _Thank you, Hargrove._

He get’s Billy’s watch off. Hems and haws over the pendant around his neck, but remembers Billy wears that in the showers at school. It should be fine. The earrings stay too.

He sets everything on the counter, surprised by how much Billy had in his pockets considering how tight his pants are. He’s got a Mary Poppins’ trunk _and_ jeans. What a magical asshole.

Billy’s boots are next, Steve unties them and wriggles them off feeling a lot less like a pervert.

Because Steve is the nicest dude in the entire world and doesn’t take what just happened to heart—even though he really wants to and he eventually will, he can’t let himself just yet, but maybe later when Billy is awake and not here and Dustin and Will are gone too, Steve can wallow like he deserves to—Steve tugs off Billy’s socks too.

He has nice feet. Pale and soft, with neat nails, and his ankles are so slim. It’s strange to see him like this.

The Halloween party comes barreling into Steve’s thoughts. Billy in that dumb leather jacket, staring him down. Shirtless. Chest glistening like a walking soap opera. Every inch of him screaming _I’m gonna fuck you up_ without moving his mouth.

That had been the only time Steve had ever interacted with a drunken Billy. _Aggressive Asshole_ seems to be what drinking his body weight in alcohol does to him, so completely different to the soft, giggling, revved up, _leaves in his hair and a hand on his dick, making these sweet sounds from the back of his throat, watching Steve_ Billy by the quarry.

Getting stoned was apparently not enough to put a dent in all that juiced up anger.

Steve balls the socks up and stuffs them into Billy’s boots and sets them at the other end of the bathroom, away from any possible water blow back then takes his place back at the tub, groaning like his dad when he sits.

Steve shakes Billy’s shoulder.

Nothing.

Pokes his cheek right where his dimple would be.

More nothing.

“Hey, dipshit.” Steve calls out.

Billy continues to ignore him.

“I had a great new Brando bit to show off, you know.” Steve says. “You were gonna be like, _wow that was so amazing, Harrington!_ and I would’ve said _nah, it was nothing_ and act all cool. You would’ve been so impressed, trust me.”

Billy says—surprisingly—nothing.

“Not that tonight hasn’t been fun or anything. Always good to get the heart pumping, that’s what my mom says. I’m gonna live to be 200 now, so, thanks.”

Billy’s lashes are _really long_. Like a girls. His lips are pretty girly too, even with the mustache. Steve wonders if Billy is wearing the same candy sweet stuff he’d had on in the library.

“Dustin and Will are here. I don’t know if you know them or not. Lil curly haired dude is Dustin. Will’s got the world’s best puppy dog eyes. I thought I did, but, shit. This kid. A major leaguer. You scared the _hell_ outta them, man.” Steve laughs. “I think Dustin has been thinking about murdering you, ‘cause he had a plan lined up real quick when he thought I killed you. Like,” Steve snaps his fingers, “pulled it out of nowhere, he was ready.”

There’s this redness to his left cheek that isn’t there on his right. Like a spot. Like a hit. Steve touches the spot with the back of his hand, a light brush of his fingers. It’s hot spot like the bruises.

Steve doesn’t linger.

“See, I thought you were a monster—like a real, honest to god monster because of course monsters exist. I signed this whole NDA thing with the government and I’m not supposed to say anything but, you know, fuck them. Fuck. Them. That’s why I had the bat. Thought you were gonna chomp on my face. More than you actually did.”

Steve touches the spot on his neck. It’s tender and sends a spike of _oh_ through him. He can still feel Billy’s lips.

“I guess I don’t get it. Shocking, right?”

He brushes the curls falling over Billy’s face and tucks them behind his ear. His forehead is sticky with old sweat. His ear is _warm_ and _velvety_ , his earring a lot lighter than Steve had thought it would be.

“Was the thought of being with me so bad you had to get drunk? Like, is it me?” Steve says expecting not a damn thing and getting exactly that.

Steve brings his hand back to his own lap. Sighs.

He can’t wait to wallow.

 

—

 

“Don’t be mad.” Steve says with his hand on the shower knob.

Unconscious Billy promises him nothing.

Steve turns the shower on, the water hitting for the most part the tiles wall behind Billy. At first Steve sets it to warm thinking of how cold Billy is. When Billy shows no signs of waking, Steve switches it to cold water, while his nerves quickly pile up.

Billy’s eyes flutter open then he’s rocketing upwards, sitting up and sputtering through a face full of water. Steve adjusts the shower head to keep it on Billy. Whatever makeup he had around his eyes starts to run. He’s sending Steve a very unfocused, barely awake glare through slitted eyes and Steve only takes a very small to at most a medium amount of pleasure in this.

He _does_ wish he’d thought to bring his polaroid.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Steve sings, cheery to the bone as he points the shower head directly into Billy’s face. The water is _cold_ and it’s working by the way Billy’s focusing enough to put his hands in front of his face.

Billy must be realizing where he is and what’s happened by the scowl on his face and the _Harrington_ he growls, which Steve barely catches over the sound of the water.

Billy’s wiping at his face, smearing his makeup even more and getting the black on his bandage—then finally noticing the bandage.

Steve turns the shower off. He reaches across the tub and grabs the bar of soap, tosses it in his hand. Smiles down at Billy, whose eyes bounce up and down tracking the soap and for how wrecked his appearance is right now, Steve can’t help but think _fuck is he cute_.

Sober Billy would be cussing him out right now. Drunk Billy just sits, drenched, blinking up at him, scowl turning into a pouty frown and only giving him a quarter of the nastiness Steve usually gets.

Well, not so usually lately.

 _This is Hargrove_. That’s all that needs to be said. A horror show to the nerds and _Confusing and Exciting and Scary and I Don’t Know What_ to Steve and every chick from Hawkins to the coast.

And Tommy too. _Tommy._

Steve holds the soap at eye level with Billy and Billy takes a long, very long second to focus.

“Why am I in a tub?” Billy says slowly, sluggish as he moves his focus from the soap up to Steve.

“You’re gonna clean up.” Steve makes sure to speak slowly, he’s dealt with trashed Tommy and Carol enough times to know how to get them to listen and, half the time, have his words stick. “I’ll get you some dry clothes, okay? You get that Hargrove?”

Billy’s back on the soap, head cocked to the side and Steve realizes Billy is sniffing it.

“It smells good.” Billy says.

The soap is green. Smells like mint. Organic. The only kind his mom will allow in the house. There’d been a time when his mom had tried to make her own soap, but his dad had put that to bed quick after a month of the house stinking of lavender.

Opening windows had not helped. The scent had seeped into the carpet and all their clothes. The other kids at school had made fun of him by saying he wore perfume. It had been a rough few weeks for everyone.

“It’s soap. It does that. Minty fresh and all, you know—soap. Good ole soap. Yeah.” Steve trails off at Billy’s blank look.

Then Billy sniffles, wipes at his nose and Steve sort of wants to reach out and ruffle his hair like he’s Dustin with a wobbly lip and hurt feelings. It’s all that openness in his face and that _one goddamn curl_ already drying and bobbing on his forehead and his _stupid, bright blue eyes_.

He can’t look at Billy’s face anymore which means looking at his chest and everything lower than his belt is wet and _clingy_ and Steve doesn’t have the brain cells right now to figure any of this out.

Billy snaps his fingers in front of Steve’s face, getting his attention. “Got some mouth wash?”

“Yeah? Yeah. Hold on.” There’s Listerine in the medicine cabinet. Steve grabs it and hands it over.

Billy skips over the lid-as-a-cup and presses his lips right to the bottle, titling his head so far back he’s at a right angle and takes a big mouthful of it, swishes it around in his mouth then spits it down his chest. Takes another big swig, except this time he swallows and keeps drinking.

Steve rips it away from him and since this is Drunk Billy his reflexes are slower and his grip isn’t nearly as strong.

Steve twists the cap back on with _force_ then shakes the bottle at Billy.

“What is wrong with you?”

“That was nasty.”

“Well no shit, you’re not supposed to drink it.”

“Then gimme a fucking beer, _jesus_. Why are you being so loud?” Billy says, digs the heel of his palm into his forehead, pained, then covers his face with both hands, peeking out from his fingers to glare at Steve with one eye.

“Don’t—don’t be cute with me. _You._ I’m not a bar and I’m not giving you jackshit.”

“Blah blah blah _blah_.” Billy says then winces, cursing. Rubs at his jaw right where that red spot is. Steve tries to remember if he hit it or if one of his elbows got him on the way to the floor or if this was a pre-Billy Situation incident.

Billy holds a hand out. “So?”

“No, man.”

“Harrington,” Billy says, struggling to point at him directly. “You suck big ole hairy balls.”

“You could literally die, Hargrove. Like actually die-die. You know, _dying_? That would be you. Dead.”

Billy rolls his eyes so hard his entire body slides down the tub until his back is lying flat on the bottom.

“Really sweet of ya to care. Now, gimme the damn mouth wash or a beer or some fuckin’ I don’t know, your bitching is killing my buzz.”

Billy sounds so done, like he’s dragging his voice across gravel and he’s the one with his own foot on the gas pedal. He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t and Steve can’t accept that, especially tonight.

“ _I care._ ” Steve says with too much everything.

Billy groans, overly loud on purpose and long enough for his voice to crack.

“So convincing. Thanks. Bite me.”

Steve grits his teeth. Uncaps the Listerine and pours it all straight down into the drain between Billy’s feet, all while glaring at Billy glaring at him.

“How’s this?”

“Bitch.” Billy says.

“Right back at you.” Steve throws the empty bottle into the sink then grabs the soap and drops it on Billy’s head, ignoring his _grunt_.

“Shower, okay? Or don’t. Just, stay here. I’ll be right back. Don’t hit your head. Don’t fall asleep. Don’t try to eat the soap, you’ll get the squirts, seriously. Just survive the next ten minutes please.” Steve says and gets the hell out of there like he’s back in the forest and the exhaust of the camaro is still lingering in the air.

 

—

 

Every light is still on downstairs. Steve makes a cup of instant coffee, then doubles it, and gives Dustin and Will a thumbs up on both his way down to the kitchen and then back upstairs.

The shower isn’t running.

He sets the mug on his desk and gets to picking out some clothes for Billy.

It’s important to not overthink it.

Steve goes through his entire closet. A pollo shirt would be _interesting._ King of Denim in a pink pollo is worth sacrificing his shirt for.

He axes the pollo. Too small anyways. Billy is _bigger_ and only a little shorter than him so most of his shirts are out. There is the Wham! shirt. There are also the shirts in his dad’s closet but there is something so incredibly uncomfortable about the image of Billy in one of his dad’s button ups he just _can’t._

Wham! it is. He hopes Billy will keep his mouth shut. He won’t, but it’d be nice.

Steve grabs a sweater too. Blue. Soft. It’ll go with his eyes and Steve isn’t thinking that at all. Billy will be cold considering the only pair of pants Steve has that have any chance of fitting him are his extra pair of gym shorts.

The shower _still_ isn’t running.

He digs through his dresser and pulls out his spare, more-or-less, perfectly acceptable pair of gym shorts. Worn only a couple of times. Steve gives them a quick sniff. _Clean enough_.

He cracks the top drawer next, peaks inside and gets overwhelmed by a wave of _Billy’s gonna be wearing my underwear_ and starts to panic over which pair to bring him. Billy could always go commando, but that’s worse. So much worse. Steve won’t be able to function through the rest of tonight knowing all of Billy is hanging out like that.

Steve grabs a random pair and slams the drawer shut. Bundles it all up under one arm. _Good job, Steve_.

The room is silent. Steve holds his breath. _The shower still isn’t running._

Steve’s hand hovers over the bathroom’s doorknob, takes one of those strength building deep breaths his mom learned about from her newest retreat, then opens the door.

Billy is in the tub. He hasn’t moved an inch.

He’s asleep.

 

—

 

Another round of cold water then a spritz of warm water to get Billy to stop shaking from the cold. When he’s sure Billy won’t end up dropping the mug on himself, Steve hands him the coffee.

Billy holds it with both hands, his fingertips going from bone white to pink on the sides of the mug.

“This isn’t beer.” Billy says, disgusted with the coffee and with Steve.

“Nope. Now up it goes, come on.” Steve taps the bottom of the mug, pushing at it to get Billy to at least attempt a drink until the rim rests against his bottom lip. “Drink it all up ‘cause you’re not falling asleep again—there you go. What a good boy you are, yes you are.”

Billy spits the coffee on him. Steve holds his shirt out and away from his skin. The coffee isn’t as hot as it had been five minutes ago, but it’s still fucking hot.

Billy’s smiling at him, proud, and the dimples are back now that he’s that buble of sunshine Steve had been hoping for. He’s sipping at the coffee.

“You dickhole.” Steve mutters.

Billy finishes the coffee with a smile and he doesn’t fall asleep again.

 

—

 

Steve is the disappointing son and the not good enough boyfriend and the friend who puts his dick first.

Billy is drunk and can’t stand on his own without falling over and bled his brains out two minutes ago and cried in front of him.

Steve does what he can to help.

There’s nowhere for Steve to rest his eyes on without feeling like he’s doing something wrong. This isn’t the locker room. This isn’t after practice. This is them at the quarry and under the bleachers and with a locked door between them and the rest of the world.

Steve keeps his eyes above the belt, which is just as bad.

He’s back in his room with Billy crowding him against a wall and Steve is clinging to the last bit of hope for the night that this is _going somewhere_ and is _going to be something_ and he’s _letting Billy push and bite_ and he’s in the shower, the tub too small with his size fifteens and Billy’s crammed side by side together, Billy intent to step on him _just because_ and Steve trying to not touch him more than he should so he _lets_ Billy’s toes rub up on his.

Billy’s drunk. Steve’s determined to get him through the night.

“One thing after another with you. I swear.” Steve mutters. This is what his mom would say. She comes to him in moments she wouldn’t have any idea what to do in.

“Your hair looks like crap.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

Billy flashes his dimples again. “Welcome, sweet cheeks.”

He’s working his way down Billy’s shirt. Too many buttons. The fabric is wet and sticks. The buttons slippery. Billy’s got his arms around Steve’s shoulders, keeping himself up. He’s watching Steve, head bent and bumping into Steve’s. He giggles with every head knock. Steve starts to laugh too. _It’s cute. He’s cute. Christ._

The last button is done. Billy’s shirt hangs open and there’s his stomach and his strong chest, the gold pendant. Billy’s eyes are heavy and closed, but his knees are locked and he’s still standing and swaying, not from alcohol, but to the beat of the song he’s humming. Whatever it is, it’s familiar. Steve can’t quite put his finger on it though.

Billy’s hands slide up Steve’s shoulders, nails scratching lightly at Steve to lock behind his neck. His toes bump into Steve’s again.

Steve starts to sway too, hands clutching at the ends of Billy’s shirt. It’s almost like they’re dancing. Not weird like he thought this might be. It’s close and dizzying and fucking nice. Steve’s face is melting off his skull. Billy is barely touching him, but he can feel every inch of him.

“You’re staring.” Billy says. Eyes open and _blue_ surrounded by traces of that smeared deep black. Still glazed over and red. A little too nice to belong to Billy Hargrove.

But that’s thinking he’ll go left.

This glimpse of _sweet_ is Billy too.

They’re closer than they should be. Billy’s nose brushes his. Billy’s got lashes that move the air around them and tell Steve so many things his whole body goes hot and his toes curl under Billy’s.

Steve forgets what he’s doing.

“Damn.” He says, breathless.

His mouth is a traitor. Billy’s lips slide into a shark’s grin. Blood is in the water. Steve’s just stabbed himself and he doesn’t care one bit.

Billy starts shaking then he’s snickering, pressing his forehead to Steve’s shoulder and popping right back up, that heavy gaze of his shifting into something beyond _drunk_ and sliding effortlessly into _I’m looking at you too_. Bright. Happy. All white teeth and shining eyes.

Steve swallows against a suddenly tied up tongue and licks his lips.

 _Oh oh oh_.

Billy moves closer. Feet to feet. Chest to chest. Hips to hips. He’s soaked through and so is Steve now and it’s good. His belt buckle is icy on Steve’s stomach even through his shirt, but his dick is hard and hot against Steve’s.

Steve grunts, his hands _wanting so much_ to reach out and grab him by the hips, to pull him closer and taste the Listerine on his tongue, to push until he has Billy’s back flat on the tiles.

He grips Billy’s shirt tighter, wraps the tail ends around his fists and Billy laughs.

“I’m not some drunk chick with a precious fuckin’ flower. Come here.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Might forget by then.”

“Then don’t forget.” Steve says. Promises. “Tomorrow.”

Billy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. His hands twitch behind Steve’s neck, his nails scratching at the small hairs there, sending tingles through him. He thinks Billy is going to pull him in anyways. Steve would let him. He’d let him do a lot of things.

But he just tugs gently at Steve’s hair, making Steve shiver.

“You’re a good guy, Stevie Nicks.” Billy says, shutting his eyes and starts humming where he left off.

Steve finds his breath. Finds his feet. Concentrates on Billy’s belt buckle.

Billy starts swaying again.

 

—

 

Just two seconds of listening to Billy humming through the door, using his soap and his shampoo is long enough for Steve to grab his second-choice-outfit and go into the guest bathroom, lock the door, and get a hand on his dick to jerk off.

He presses fingers against the sore spot where Billy bit him, manages two strokes, he’s that keyed up. There’s a small bowl of portpourri by the sink Steve sends spinning across the counter and nearly crashing to the floor when he has to brace himself on the edge because he’s come so hard his knees stop working. Slides to the ground to sit with his back to the door, clothes a mess of dried blood and jizz.

Steve’s exploded. Drained. Wipes his hand off on his shirt. His dick is still hard, jutting out from the v of his fly, twitching in the air, needy for more Billy.

He thumps his head against the wall and tells his dick _I have no time for you and your problems._

 

—

 

Showered. Changed. A plain blue t shirt and acid wash jeans. Hair wet and dripping down the collar of his shirt. Steve makes a quick detour downstairs.

Dustin has surrounded himself with a small fort of VHS tapes. Will has the bowl of pretzels and cheese puffs on his lap, salt and orange dust all around his mouth that he scrubs away with his hand when he notices Steve in the doorway.

Dustin jumps up and barrels towards him. VHS tapes skid everywhere. Steve has no idea where they go in the shelves and he can already see his dad’s reaction—lips thinned and mustache bristling, _you have no respect for anyone or anything, Steve_.

“You!” Dustin is shoving his finger in Steve’s face again. “First a LaserDisc and now a freaking Atari? What the hell? Why am I just learning about this, Steve? Why is this not, like, the first thing you tell us?”

“Has anyone ever told you you talk way too fast for two in the morning?”

“It’s called being young and curious and thirsty for knowledge and betrayed when your friend is hiding his cool stuff.” Dustin holds up a black box he had no idea existed in the house before now.

“I think that’s my dad’s?”

“Your dad’s amazing. I need to meet him.”

“Trust me, he isn’t and you don’t.” Steve looks to Will, but Will is making his way through that bowl pretzel by pretzel, cheese puff by cheese puff, eating carefully so he doesn’t get crumbs anywhere this time. “You doing okay there, Will?”

Will’s chewing slows, eyes going wide like he’s been caught. Dustin actually stops his interrogation too, which is one heck of a perk.

Will covers his mouth and says around a mouthful of food, “fine.” Even gives a thumbs up.

But Dustin isn’t convinced the way he turns to Steve to share one of those _he’s little and he’s a fucking liar_ looks.

The kid looks pretty content sitting there eating snacks and watching a movie—what the movie is, Steve has no idea—he just doesn’t seem like he’s on the edge of the world ending and the pipes from upstairs are still making noise, which means Billy’s still in the shower, but for how long he has no idea and he _needs_ to contain the upcoming Situation.

Steve pats at Dustin’s arm and tries to convey _you worry too much_ and _sad people don’t eat cheese puffs_ even though _that’s_ the biggest lie right up there with _your father is proud of you_ and _I love you_.

 

—

 

Dustin follows him to the staircase.

“How’s it going up there? Need back up? I’m ready to rumble.” Dustin says. He punches his palm.

“It’s fine.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve fought monsters. _Real_ , R rated kind of monsters.” Dustin pops the collar of his shirt. “I think I can take a douchebag.”

“You did call him _the_ Billy Hargrove, so. I’m good. I’m fine. I can handle it from here, thanks.”

“I’m not a baby, Steve. _I can help._ ”

“I know.”

“I’m not just some _kid_ you’re like babysitting or something. I can handle big, scary things like Billy.”

“ _Look_. Okay. You’re not a kid. I get it. But I have a lot of experience with drunk dudes and drunk dudes like Hargrove don’t like, you know, a bunch of people handling him. I’m not blowing you off, I just don’t want you to get caught up in the—the shrapnel, you know? I’m fine, I got this.”

Dustin deflates. “You always say that.”

“What?”

“ _I’m fine._ You always say that and I’m starting to think you don’t mean it even half the time.”

“Well.” Steve stops. _No need to call me out on it, jeez_. “I mean it now. This time. All the times. _I do_.”

Dustin’s lips purse together.

“Okay, so. Yeah. Maybe I overestimate the fineness of the situation. Sometimes. Rarely. But not now, it’s fine. I’m serious. It’s fine. I’m fine. Every single thing is _fine_.”

Dustin pats his arm. “The first step is admitting you have a problem—what is going on with your neck?”

Steve swats him away then puts a hand over the spot Billy sucked-bit-bruised-up-with-his-whole-mouth mauled him. His face heats up. He tries to fight it, just making it worse and now his ears are hot too and Dustin is not looking away.

Steve makes some solid eye contact with the staircase. “Must have hit something when I caught Hargrove? Yeah. Yep. _Yep_.”

“Does it hurt?” Dustin says, standing on his toes, trying to get a better angle.

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“See? Like that. You say it so much, dude. It’s like your catchphrase or something.”

“Maybe I say it because that’s what I am—I’m just _fine_ a lot. So.”

“Are you?”

“I swear to christ, Dustin.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry. I’ll never ask you how you’re doing again. How dare I?” Dustin mutters under his breath, “someone’s grumpy.”

For this particular moment, Steve goes with his gut reaction. He steals Dustin’s hat and holds it out of his reach when he tries to get it back, which is more challenging than he thought it’d be since the kid is getting tall these days.

“I’m gonna check on Hargrove and I’m taking your hat as payment for all the sass you’ve been giving me tonight.” Steve cuts off Dustin before he can start arguing, “you and Will go, I don’t know, brush your teeth or something. This is my hat now.”

 

—

 

Billy’s out of the shower and crouching by the albums, rifling through them one by one and plucking them off the shelf to look at their back and then setting them on the floor.

His hair is darker wet, dripping still and curling sweetly at the ends. He’s in the clothes Steve left for him. The sweater has always been too big for Steve, but it seems to fit Billy perfectly, clinging to his back with the sleeves long enough to go passed his wrists. It’s a cozy look. The dark blue of the sweater goes with his eyes just like he’d thought and Steve is a sucker, he knows it, it’s in his bones, and even with the gym shorts that are riding up Billy’s thighs the whole _look_ is warm and inviting.

Steve leans against the doorway. Billy hasn’t noticed him and this will be the last time tonight Steve can just watch and look without Billy turning hia sharp attention back at him.

Billy throws one of his albums— _Seven and the Ragged Tiger_ —over his shoulder, it lands with a crack that makes Steve wince. _Sorry Mr. Le Bon_. But Steve gets a better view of the bandage, wet and pink and turning redder by the second. Steve pushes off from the door.

Billy doesn’t even look at him. He’s got _Purple Rain_ and _Polly Wog Stew_ in his hands.

“Who likes Prince and Beastie Boys and also likes,” he plucks at the sweater then tugs up the collar of his shirt underneath along with his eyebrow.

“Wham! is amazing. Shut your mouth.” Steve puts a finger up in warning that makes Billy bob his head _oh really?_ “I gotta change your—“ Steve waves his hand at Billy’s hand, “—come on.”

Steve helps Billy up by grabbing his upper arm. Billy falls into him a little and then his nose is against Steve’s neck—against _the spot_ and Steve can hear him inhale, can feel his breath and Steve freezes while he clenches up at the prospect of whatever else Billy is going to toss at him now.

Then Billy pulls away and he’s got Dustin’s hat in his hands. He widens the strap in the back, tucks his hair up and puts it on without Steve raising one finger to stop him.

Steve watches as mesmerized as always by Billy doing absolutely anything. Dustin will not be happy with him or any of this.

“My hair is fucked and I’m too drunk to deal, okay?” Billy says and Steve would say he’s pouting if he allowed himself to look at Billy’s lips longer than a half a second.

Steve wants to tell him his hair looked good, damp and curling around his ears, but Billy isn’t looking at him and the visor is almost hiding his eyes and he doubt Billy wants to hear that right now anyways.

Steve gets him to sit on his stripped bed—doesn’t tell him to not move because then he’ll _definitely_ move. Gets the first aid kit out from the bathroom. He thinks about just kneeling in front of Billy, but that would be Too Much. Sitting on the bed next to him would also be Much Too Much.

Steve drags his desk chair over and sits across from him instead. A safe, professional, one teen helping out another, nothing funny happening or will be happening ever, distance.

Billy gives him his hand without asking and it’s weird to do this with him awake and watching. Suddenly Steve is second guessing his—admittedly fuzzy—first aid process under the hard-set gaze Billy is sending him and Steve has to force himself to not linger or notice Billy’s hands are a lot warmer than the last time, with rough callouses that rub against Steve’s softer skin and they’re not holding hands. Steve doesn’t even _want_ to hold Billy’s hand.

He unwraps the old bandage and throws it into the trash bin. When it goes in he actually lets out a little _whoop_ he immediately regrets, but tries to pretend he doesn’t.

Billy sees through it. Drunk and all, Billy is sparkling at Steve doing something dumb.

“That must have hurt.” He says.

“Shut up.”

“So fuckin’ dorky. Wow. How are you alive after that?”

“Oh my god.”

“Motherfucking basketball star over here—did the Pacers manage to recruit you or—”

Steve pushes his thumb into the soaked gauze pad right over where he knows the cut is, not hard enough to dig in, but not lightly either. Just enough for Billy to wince, his mouth to clamp shut, back going ramrod straight, he yanks his hand out of Steve’s grip to clutch it to his chest.

Glaring is an understatement. Billy is genuinely offended. He’s holding his hand like he’s registering it hurts for the first time tonight and some sanity seems to filter back into the room.

Steve laughs, has to cover his mouth and ends up snorting.

Billy mutters, “cuntwaffle.”

“Sure am and proud of it. Give me your hand. Come on now, don’t be shy.”

“Fuck you, no.” Billy pulls his hand in tighter, protecting it from Steve and Steve grins like he’s still the asshole he was last year.

“I promise not to do it again. _I promise._ ” Steve says. He puts a hand over his heart. “I swear on my shitty kingly life I won’t do it again.”

Billy glares and glares and _glares_ and he doesn’t budge so Steve holds his hand out and waits, pulls out the same big-eyed, pouty-lipped look he used on Nancy and every girl who’s ever laughed at one of his dumb jokes.

Billy wavers and huffs and slowly holds his hand back out with his fingers curled inwards and Steve gently— _gently_ —takes his hand in his and thumbs at the soft part of Billy’s wrist, urging him to open his fingers so he can get at the bandage.

“ _Fuck_.” Billy says, his fingers clenching together then falling open. Steve’s eyes dart up and Billy got his head turned away, his cheeks bright red and Steve’s heart jumps up and into his throat and reminds him, no matter what he says, he’s still holding Billy’s hand.

Steve swallows, ducks his head and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are six chapters now. I had to split the chapter again because it got too big (agh).
> 
> Extras:
> 
> 1\. Steve's winging it when it comes to first aid, but he's trying real hard
> 
> 2\. Don't drink Listerine,
> 
> 3\. Steve's taste in music is all over the place, he likes it all
> 
> My [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com).


	5. [3/3]

The sound of the washing machine running can be heard upstairs. So can the heater. The kids are watching another movie, though Steve has no idea what. Billy’s breathing is loud, ringing in his ears. Steve fumbles with the new bandage. The heater is going to melt him at this rate.

Now that Billy’s awake, it’s _different_ to be doing this to him—this close up and being able to hear him swallow—if that doesn’t make Steve work on his toes.

He tries to keep his attention on _the task_ and his eyes from crossing the invisible elbow border. Bad things lay up north. Things with big blues that make Steve question his judgment. Eventually dabbing peroxide and staring _inside of Billy_ through his cut—a cut a doctor should be taking care of and not Steve whose experience with first aid comes from episodes of MASH—Steve can’t _not_ check up top when he feels Billy’s eyes land on him and stay there, not moving once.

Face cleaned up, his blush that had blared so brightly fading to a light, pretty pink, the red mark on the side of Billy’s jaw stands out more and the reason for it becomes obvious.

Steve may not be the brightest and him trying his hardest may amount to only a C, but he knows just a few things could’ve caused something like that. Billy could’ve gotten banged up scaling the outside of the house. Or he could’ve gotten hit. A punch. A really hard slap. He’s probably sore.

Steve wonders if it would be wrong of him to somehow trick Billy into going to the hospital anyways.

He glances at Billy’s right hand, hanging loosely propped up on his knee. Turns over his left one. Billy’s knuckles aren’t busted or scraped or red at all. Not like when he’d hit Steve. Then, his knuckles had been bleeding. Raw.

There’s no way it was Tommy or any other kid since Billy would hit back and he wouldn’t be shy about it. Which means it would be someone older. Or a girl. A girl would work. Nancy had slapped Steve pretty hard. Billy seems like the type to cause a girl to slap him now and again.

But then there’d been Billy’s busted face a month ago. A hundred slaps from a pissed off chick wouldn’t do that.

Steve’s stalled out. He blinks to refocus. Billy’s zoned out too. That must say something about them, nothing Steve will think about until tomorrow. He gets back to finding pads of gauze and stacking them up to cover the cut. Next he’ll get Billy a bag of peas or a steak if there is one from the freezer and Billy might not follow him downstairs to do it, if he’s lucky.

Billy will _definitely_ follow him downstairs.

“How many chicks you fucked, Harrington?” Billy says, startling Steve out of his _What To Do About Billy_ thoughts.

Steve is surprised to see how steady Billy’s stare is. A little on the heavy lidded side. Voice low and talking slowly. Picking his words out carefully so he doesn’t slur them into one big mess.

But steady.

“One? Five? Tell me it wasn’t just the princess.”

Steve _could_ just ignore him. Billy might be joking, trying to get a rise out of him—this is the kind of talk he’s had with Tommy hundreds of times and it was never anything more than the two of them being stupid together—but the way he’s watching Steve and waiting for his answer tells him that isn’t right.

Billy’s gone and shifted gears without telling him. The many waves of Billy Hargrove. Steve is going to be swept away without much of a choice on his part.

Might as well go with the tide.

“As if.” Steve says just as slowly, matching Billy’s tone. He juts his thumb up. “Higher.”

Billy’s eyebrow’s hit his hairline and he’s leaning forward and Steve’s leaning back, not prepared for a face full of Billy to come at him.

“Ten?”

Steve swallows. “ _Way higher._ ”

Billy’s practically off the bed and if Steve had thought his answer would mean anything more than a quick joke at his expense than he’d have just low-balled it or be _honest_ and let Billy get it out and move on, but their knees are touching now. Billy’s breath is on his face again for the millionth time tonight, smelling like minty Listerine and his eyelashes really are like a girl who’s done herself up.

Steve doesn’t know what he’ll do if Billy gets on the floor right between his legs. It’s one of those images if it became real he might die or explode or say something dumb like _I think I might actually like you_ and Steve would rather just drop dead right now than do that.

“ _Fifteen?_ ” Billy says.

The hole has been dug so Steve digs it deeper. He’s always been big on commitment. “Triple. Digits. Dude.”

Billy’s face scrunches up, the disbelief rocks into him and he falls back on the bed, feet kicking out. Steve has to tighten his grip on Billy to hang on to him and keep him from flying loose.

“Tch.” Billy says, scowling. “You’re bullshitting me. Again.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Fuckwad.”

Steve _tsks_ at him. “Hundreds of ladies have gotten some of this.” Steve runs a hand down his chest. “Can’t get enough of that homegrown, midwestern lovin’. Not my fault you don’t believe me, dipshit.”

“That’s fucking nasty. Your dick is probably rotting.”

“I can’t help it if I’m a pussy magnet.”

“I’m gonna hurl on you.”

“I’m not helping you out this time. You’re on your own and I hope you hit your head.”

Billy smiles at him, sweetly and then with the tip of his tongue bit between his teeth, the same grin he has on right before he scores a point on Steve.

“But I thought you had fun, Stevie Nicks?” Billy croons and Steve is ambushed by Billy pointedly licking his upper lip. He freezes, caught. Blushes. Forces himself to shove his head down and focus only on Billy’s bandage and finishing up.

“So easy, Harrington.” Billy says. He laughs. _Giggles._

Steve’s ears burn and a quick glance up shows he’s not the only one. Like Steve, Billy’s ignoring how red his own cheeks have gone.

Steve could throw the entire night in Billy’s face. A year ago he would have. If this wasn’t Billy and this wasn’t about bad Brando impressions and making it up to him, he would.

Quickly, he says, “that’s part of the problem, can’t say no to all those birdies lining up for a ride.”

Billy gags and Steve drops everything to rush and grab the bin, shove it under Billy’s face, but Billy is laughing harder now and he pushes the bin back into Steve’s chest.

Steve tosses it to the side. In arms reach, though. Just in case.

“I can’t decide if you’re worse drunk or sober.” Steve says, sitting back down.

“It’s a lot more fun drunk if that helps.” Billy grins. Dimples and white teeth and upstanding citizenship.

The washing machine stops. Downstairs, the sound of VHS screaming drifts up. They’re probably watching another horror movie. Steve doesn’t get why. The room is so quiet now.

He finishes up with the new bandage. He used most of the roll of gauze. Overdid it by a bit. Steve doesn’t let go of him, keeps his thumbs pressed against the muscles of Billy’s palm he can feel even with a thick wad of bandages in the way. Billy doesn’t say anything.

This new quiet and maybe with how close they are makes it harder to say anything, like the quiet is more important because at least then it’s peaceful. But Steve pushes through it.

“Can I ask you something?” He says.

Billy shakes his head, earrings swaying. “No.”

“Come on. I just put a bandaid on you.”

“I didn’t _ask_ for your help.”

“And here I am, helping anyways.”

“ _Still_ no.”

“Dude.”

Billy groans, covers his face with his hand.

“Who hit you?”

Billy props his chin on his hand, bored. “Gonna have to be, like, way more specific.”

 _Today. Last month._ “You know when, you’re not _that_ drunk anymore.”

Billy goes cross-eyed, tilting his head. “Which one of you said that?”

“Ha ha.” Steve deadpans. “Don’t—you know what I’m asking. I got a few punches in, but I didn’t hit you that much to make you look like—like _that_.”

Billy shakes Steve off of him, taking his hand back with a dark look on his face. He flexes his fingers. Cracks his knuckles. Inspects the bandage.

“Even if I’m not a chick, taking advantage of a drunk guy is a pretty shitty thing to do. Thought you were better than that, King Steve? Golden boy of Hawkins High. Mother Theresa sucking your dick every day. Don’t you piss sunshine and shit rainbows?”

“And fuck unicorns, where are you getting any of this bull? _People don’t like me._ ”

“Don’t be such a loser.”

“All my friends are in middle school.”

Billy isn’t impressed or moved. Gives him a dry look that belongs to sober Billy. Steve wished he decked Tommy, punched him right in the nose at the bleachers and a hundred times before then.

“Tommy’s full of it. He thinks Kennedy lives in a bunker with Hitler and the moon isn’t real. He’s just saying shit to hear himself talk because no one else wants to.”

“Harrington, you think I’m that fuckin’ dumb?” Billy says. “This whole shit town has their heads up your golden boy ass.”

Steve can’t tell if that’s true or not—there’s no reason for Billy to lie, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t and Steve isn’t about to trust himself right now. Too many nights all by himself. Stuck in his own head. No place to escape to. No more Wheeler’s house to hide away in. Needing someone to just look at him and see him and then to have _Billy_ be the one—he can’t.

He’s all jumbled up and the thought of anyone having two nice words to say about him that’d give Billy this off of a picture of who he is fucks with his head even worse.

“None of it’s true.” Steve says and knows it. _This is a fact. The sky is blue. A demogorgon is a real, actual thing. And there’s nothing golden about Steve Harrington_.

“Right.” Billy drawls, not believing him.

“No, it isn’t. It’s bullshit. I’m not anything.” Steve’s face is getting hot in the awful kind of _eyes stinging_ sort of way. “My parents are rich and I haven’t done anything stupid enough to actually be arrested for—like, that’s the bar around here. Don’t get arrested, don’t let the cops catch you and even if they do it doesn’t matter because my dad practically sponsors the department. That’s it. I’m—“ Steve swallows around the knot in his throat that’s been there since he was twelve, “—I’m nothing. Not special. Not _golden_. Just. Nothing.”

Billy hasn’t moved. Still bored. Still unimpressed. Steve’s an idiot. He wipes at his nose.

“Boo hoo. You got money and parents who don’t—who give half a shit about you.”

“Oh, piss off with that.”

“Fuck you.” Billy’s face has gone hard, serious. He’s angry. Steve’s angry too. “You’re not _nothing_. That’s retarded.”

“This you trying to be nice again?”

“No.” Is all Billy says.

“Whatever.” Steve rubs at his eyes. Tired. Billy is too warm. Too mean. Too nice. Too close. “Just. Someone hit you then, right? And tonight. Or last night, I guess. Was it the same guy?”

“Why do you care?”

“I just do.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Billy cocks his head to the side, not about to answer with his lips in such a thin line, but he considers Steve and then his mouth twists up, like he’s got something sour on his tongue.

“What’s—so fucking weird, Harrington.” He shakes his head, fidgets with the visor of the hat, a curl cuts loose and tumbles out to bounce by his ear.

Steve reaches out and it’s the exhaustion and the way Billy gave him his hand, how he’d done this when Billy had been passed out in the tub, like it had just been _the thing to do_ , when he realizes just what he’s doing and that this isn’t Nancy or Laurie or Becky or _a girl_. Meets Billy’s eye and he stops. Pulls his hand back.

Billy stands up, his footing a little shaky but gets his feet under him and plants them. Flexes his newly bandaged hand. Tugs at the sleeves of the sweater so they cover his knuckles. Walks from the bed to the door. Turns his back to Steve when there’s space between them and all he has is a closed door in front of him.

“On the topic of getting me some booze ASAP and away from this sissy shit—“ Billy starts then yanks the door open and is halfway down the hall, “—where you hiding the good stuff, rich boy? I’m gonna find it, but, like, it’ll be real Prince Charming of ya to just tell me.”

 

—

 

Billy’s determined to poke his head into every corner of _King Steve’s Palace_. Any thought of booze waylaid by _just because_.

He walks fast. Crooked. Steps going in zig zags when something catches his attention. When Steve manages to catch up to him, he walks faster. Moves away quick. Keeps the space between them constant. Steve takes the hint.

Billy’s got his head in the guest room, frowning and disappointed and calling the pink and purple flower curtains _fugly_. Says, _did your grandma die in here? this is fucking depressing._

There’s no stopping him. Not that Steve tries all that hard.

Billy’s not breaking anything. Rolling his eyes. Smirking. Pointing. Honestly, it’s nice to hear someone trash talking the house. No _wow, this place is awesome!_ coming out of Billy’s mouth. Just sarcasm and insults about how boring his family is and how his parents _probably only fuck missionary with that bedspread._

Having Billy go room to room, shitting on everything that makes his parents proud is—it feels good. It’s different and mean and the petty part in Steve that came from waiting for his parents to come home only for them to call last minute and say they’ll be back in another week, _to not wait up and to get all your homework done and stay out of trouble like a good boy_ soaks up every mean word.

Billy’s at his mom’s vanity, poking through her makeup and her perfumes, sniffing at the nozzle on a few of them and his nose scrunching up. Steve finds a comfy spot by leaning against the door jamb, just watching him. Happy Billy’s not downing any of the perfume too. Lets his body sink into itself, lets his eyes wander low and get lost in the long, thick lines of Billy’s legs and how weird it is for Billy’s bare feet to be on the same carpet Steve learned to walk on.

Billy makes a happy sound, holds up one of Steve’s mom’s lipsticks. Opens it. Twists it up. A bright red Steve has never see her wear.

Billy is beaming.

“Slutty.” Billy says with a sloppy grin. “The king’s mama likes to _get it_.”

He moves his hips in a sort of dance move then and he may be drunk and high and who knows what else he took, but that move is _fluid_ and practiced and Steve’s thoughts are off, sprinting from him and he doesn’t even care what Billy’s just said.

“Gross.” Steve says, half-assed and distracted. He wishes Billy would do the thing with his hips again.

Billy paints a red streak on the tip of his forefinger, turns to the mirror and spreads it on his bottom lip. Smacks his lips together. Grins.

Steve dies. He’s gone through two floors and through the center of the Earth and out into space. Dustin’s gonna have to get some fancy-ass telescope to find him and pull him back down to Earth.

He adjusts himself. Gets a good eyeful and then thinks about the college pamphlets stuffed in a drawer downstairs and how his mom still has hopes for him and Dustin and Will could be just around the corner, waiting to ambush them.

“I was so wrong.” Billy says. Caps the lipstick. “This is cocksuckin’ color.”

Steve doesn’t know how it’s possible to get a guy’s dick so hard he travels through dimensions while making the same guy want to strangle you, but Billy does it with panache.

A one of a kind asshole, this fucker.

 

—

 

With no rooms left to critique, Billy heads for the stairs and Steve starts the countdown in his head—minutes, maybe seconds, until Billy and Dustin and Will come face to face—then Billy is by the railing, trying to get a good picture of what the downstairs looks like, if he can reach the chandelier and then he’s pitching forward, over it.

Quickly his feet are up in the air. Steve can only manage _oh my god_ and grabs the back of Billy’s sweater, wraps his arm around Billy’s chest and yanks him backwards, stumbling until Steve’s back hits the wall and they both go crumpling to the floor.

Billy’s shaking, laughing so hard he’s not making any noise at all. Heavy. Solid. Squirming on top of Steve. Curling in on himself.

Billy says, choking the words out, “if only you moved like that on the court.”

Steve’s still got his arm as a vice around Billy. Can feel Billy’s heartbeat under his palm—fast and too personal, too close, but Steve keeps it there. Hides his face in the thick fibers of the sweater on Billy’s back. Smells _his_ soap and _his_ shampoo and conditioner and starts to laugh too.

He gets his other arm around Billy. Locking him in place. Knots his fingers together.

 

—

 

His dad’s office is in a corner of the house downstairs and Billy heads straight for it.

Steve has a habit of avoiding it like hell whenever his dad is home. The possibility of a lecture or a talk about Steve’s _likely future_ at his dad’s company is too high for him to chance it on those days.

It’s one of the reasons why he’d spend so much time at Nancy’s house when they were dating. Nancy’s house was always so _full_. Never empty. Never lifeless. Never still. Her mom was there, her dad, her little baby sister who always slapped him with her flailing arms or tried to chew on his fingers or tugged on his hair. Even Mike, who never had a word to say to him, was a damn godsend in comparison.

Without his dad, the office loses the looming dread. It’s just a bunch of old wood panelling and leather and smells like cigarettes his dad isn’t supposed to be smoking and frustrated father on the leather.

Having Billy in here—there’s a knot tangling up in his back, making him look over his shoulder at the door, checking for his dad.

His dad wouldn’t just ignore Billy because he’s _not the type a Harrington associates with_. He’d take one look at Billy and he’d _hate_ everything about him.

Billy spots the decanter immediately. Steve is too slow to keep him from taking that first swallow of whiskey.

“Don’t drink that—“ Steve takes it away and sets it _oh so very carefully_ back to where it had been and in the exact same angle it’s always left at.

“Tasted bad anyways.” Billy says and moves on, ignores Steve’s _you drank Listerine_.

He sits at Steve’s dad’s desk, in his chair. Spins in it with his knees drawn up to his chest, feet flat on the cushion. Opens drawers. Slams them shut. Sticks one of the _expensive custom made_ pens in his mouth and bites at it. Nothing catches his attention.

Steve stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, not knowing what to do. Sleep sounds nice. Billy’s lips are still _cocksuckin’_ red.

Then Billy is up and moving again and Steve’s tired—so tired—spine cracks to keep up with him.

Billy’s staring up at the photograph of Steve and his parents. He’d been in his cowboy phase when the picture had been taken. He has chaps on and a tan cowboy hat to match and all Steve can see is _dork_ now that Billy’s looking. Embarrassing doesn’t even begin—

Billy pulls the frame off the wall. Holds it in both hands up close to his face. Still has the pen in his mouth, like a cigarette, nearly poking the glass with it.

“This you?” Billy says.

Steve cringes. Thinks about denying it, but what’s the point. The night is already weird enough. “Yeah. I liked—I was really into Clint Eastwood movies, okay?”

“Picture perfect fuckin’ family, huh?” Billy says softly, studying the photograph some more. Steve looks over his shoulder and tries to see what he’s seeing and Billy doesn’t move away or try to keep a few feet between them this time. It’s a relief.

Billy points to Steve’s dad. “That your old man?”

“Yeah.”

“He looks like an asshole.”

“I mean. The mustache isn’t _great_. My mom keeps telling him to shave it.”

Thin and greying. It’s old fashion or just out of fashion and makes him look twenty years older than he actually is. It’s not a good mustache. Steve touches his own smooth upper lip. If he can ever grow enough facial hair, he’s going to go full beard like Hopper.

Billy’s staring hard at the photograph, any humor he’s had fades into something hard and unpleasant. His hands are shaking. He’s pressing his thumbs so hard against the glass, they’ve turned bone white. The frame creaks in his grip.

“You love him?” Billy asks, not looking away.

“I guess? Never really thought about it.” Steve says, tries to think of what Billy wants him to say. “He’s my dad. So.”

Billy sneers. He tosses the photo over his shoulder. Steve has to leap to his left to catch it before it smashes into his dad’s desk.

“I need beer. A lot of fucking beer.” Billy says then he’s out the door.

 

—

 

One step off the staircase and it starts. The streams cross and Steve can’t stop it. He’d honestly prefer a big marshmallow man come and rip the roof off his house right this second.

“That’s my hat.” Is what Dustin decides is a good opening line. He holds his hand out. “Give it back.”

It’s impressive how Dustin’s voice doesn’t waver or crack, he’s standing his ground against Billy who looks like he doesn’t even remember he’s wearing a hat at all or who Dustin is.

Steve’s walked into an old western stand off with neither Billy or Dustin backing down. There’s whistling in the distance and a tumbleweed out there with Steve’s name on it.

The same kid who wanted to be lookout while Steve went alone into the dark creepy bunker to hunt down a baby monster is standing at nearly eye level with Billy, doesn’t have a knife or a golf club, just his barehands and isn’t backing down.

But this is still _Billy_ who’s twice Dustin’s size and has biceps larger than Dustin’s head, chewing on the end of a one of a kind pen like it’s straw with a hard expression, unmoving and not the least bit impressed or intimidated no matter how _impressive_ Dustin is in this moment.

Steve puts a hand between them because there isn’t enough room for him to move in and break that hard Clint Eastwood stare they’re giving each other, ignoring Steve completely.

Will’s standing to the side, just behind Dustin. Steve catches his eye once, sharing a look of _it’s too late for this kind of BS_. Then Will looks at Billy and he gets this strange expression on his face with his cheeks going redder by the second and Steve’s heart sinks for the kid.

Billy takes the pen out of his mouth, points it at Dustin. Almost hits him in the nose with it.

“Aren’t you one of the creepy lil fucks who were stalking Max?” Billy says.

“Okay—“ Steve starts to say, but Dustin jumps in, flushing in embarrassment and the cool cowboy attitude goes out the window.

“Lucas was the one stalking her. I was just trying to be friends with her. I _am_ friends with her. And _you_ are wearing _my_ hat, Hargrove. Billy. Hargrove. _Billy Hargrove._ ”

A strike if there ever was one. Dustin stumbles over the landing, but he keeps his chin up and his gaze steady and Billy doesn’t care whatsoever.

_Probably wouldn’t help to cheer him on._

Billy taps his chin with the capped end of the pen. Not revving up to deliver a hard hit. Just thinking.

“Why?” He says. “She’s the worst.”

“She’s the Zoomer!”

“What the fuck is a _zoomer?_ ”

“She can—the skateboarding? Mad Max? Hello?”

“All she does is grind and ollie. She’s not _zooming_ for shit. She can barely ride that thing going down hill.”

Dustin’s clenches his fists by his sides, Steve puts a hand on his shoulder. “She’s amazing and good and, like, way better than you ever will be, especially at being a human person. So.”

“Dude,” Billy says slowly, “you gotta stop thinking with your dick when your dick ain’t wanted.”

“Excuse me?!” Dustin’s mouth is left hanging open. He snaps it shut and pushes forward and Steve holds him back. “Give me my hat back, you—you uruk-hai motherfucker.”

Whatever that means goes over Steve’s head, but not Billy’s. He gets it and Billy starts grinning, tongue poking out and pinched between his teeth. Pissed off and happy about it, excited for a fight. Steve puts a hand square on his chest, pushing back when Billy starts to lean forward.

“If anything I’m an elf and you’re an ugly ass dwarf, _stalker._ ”

Dustin’s mouth drops open, even Will is surprised, and Steve is completely out of the loop, doesn’t know what the hell anyone’s saying, but he knows they’ve crossed the finish line and it’s time to wrap up.

“All right, you guys. Time out. Both of you stop talking. I don’t know what the fuck either one of you is saying anymore.”

Dustin ignores him because he’s Dustin and he’s got a bone to pick. Says, “you’re the worst.”

Billy smiles. “I’m obviously the best.”

“You stole my hat.”

“I stole Harrington’s hat. Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“I’m the guy with the hat that you’re gonna stretch out with your enormous melon head—“ Dustin starts ramping up and Billy’s grin only gets sharper and sharper, “—also your hair is greasy and gross and is gonna ruin the fabric and you have a _mullet_ , who has a _mullet_ —“

Billy rips the hat off and Dustin’s mouth slams shut. Steve even lets up and his hand falls from Billy’s chest. This isn’t Billy being nice though. He pops the cap off the pen with his teeth and starts writing and the three of them stare dumbly at him, watching.

“Is he—is he writing on my hat? Steve? Will? Is he writing on my fucking hat right now right in front of me?”

“Yep.” Billy says around the cap then caps the pen, sticks it behind his ear and puts the hat back on. Proudly showing off the _I LOVE BILLY HARGROVE_ written in cursive on the visor with the ‘i’ in Billy dotted with a heart.

“Oh. My. God.” Dustin says.

“It’ll wash out.” Will tries. “It’s just ink.”

“Nah.” Billy’s grinning, tipping the visor. “This shit isn’t gonna come out. This baby’s gonna wear my name till d-day.”

Dustin lunges and he can’t blame the kid, but he also can’t let the kid have this either. Steve catches him, stops him from making a bad, not one bit good mistake.

“Everyone shut up. Dustin, shut up. Hargrove, _shut your mouth._ ” He shoves at Billy and Dustin, pushing them away from each other so he can step between them. Takes the pen away from Billy too.

Will catches Dustin, keeping a hand around his arm. Dustin turns on Steve, glares at him and it’s been a while since Dustin’s given him such an outright nasty and unfriendly look. Steve winces.

“You let him take my hat.” Dustin says. “ _My hat, Steve_.”

“He didn’t let me do shit. I stole it from him.” Billy cuts in. Dustin ignores him.

“You said he was better than we think and he’s just—he’s just a gigantic asshole.”

“I mean,” Steve leans in close to Dustin to whisper, “I feel like this is a pretty big upgrade from the, you know, _Psycho Billy_ we had. It’s just a hat. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I don’t want a new one, I want _my hat_.“ Dustin says the same time Billy growls out _the hell did you just call me?_ , but Steve just shoves a hand in Billy’s face.

“ _Shut up, Hargrove_ —Dustin, look.” Steve says because it’s important—the _most_ important—for Dustin to never look at him like _that_ again. “He’s drunk. And high. And, you know, a dick when he isn’t, so.”

“So?”

“ _So_ go in the den. Cool off. We all need to chill out. Wait for me. Let him sober up and remember how to be a person for half a minute, okay? I’ll get your hat back and we’ll clean it up.”

“Steve.”

“Dustin.”

“ _Steve_.” Dustin’s hands ball up into fists at his side, his moth pinched tight, but he settles. “Fine,” he bites out then points his finger at Billy, “I don’t like you. At all.”

Billy taps the visor. “Says here you kinda love me.”

“ _I hate you so much_.”

Billy clutches a this chest, “ouch, my heart.”

“Dick.” Dustin says and storms off. Will follows him.

 

—

 

A roll of duct tape Steve finds under the sink. A neon colored, splotchy paint patterned Mickey Mouse hat he hasn’t thought of since he outgrew camouflage he found in the back of his closet along with clothes he was supposed to give to his mom to donate, like, two years ago.

There’s dust still in his eyes. A musty smell that’s sticking to his clothes now. But he’s got another hat and he’s got the back up duct tape and he’s got Billy glaring at him, sitting on the formal couch no one ever sits on, sinking into a dozen decorative pillows and trying to look as mean as he can and failing pretty bad in Steve’s experienced opinion.

“Is that. . .?” Dustin lights up and Steve feels like he’s finally doing something right by him by the horrified expression on Billy’s face.

“I’m not much of a hat guy for the _obvious_ reasons, so this is all I have.”

“Fuck no.” Billy sneers and crosses his arms and he’s so close to sulking Steve might consider possibly feeling a little bad for him.

Dustin says, “if I said _hey Mickey_ will you—“

“—take your hat and burn it? _Yeah_.” Billy glares at him.

Dustin nods. “Never mind then.”

Steve puts a hand on his hip. “It’s either this or everyone gets to see your frizzy rat nest hair.”

The downright offended, open mouthed glare Billy has on makes the entire night worth it and creates the perfect moment for Steve to move quick and swap the hats.

Except Billy’s not so slow anymore and he’s sobering up by the minute, so he grabs Steve’s wrist when Steve’s got the cap off him just in time to kiss the side of it, leaving behind a bright red kiss print. Takes the Mickey Mouse hat from Steve’s shocked slack grip, puts it on all on his own.

"That one’s for you, shortstuff." Billy says. Steve gingerly hands Dustin back his hat and Dustin stares at it, disgusted.

"Can we—“ Dustin stops, starts mumbling, stroking his hat and he’s pretty sure Dustin just broke. “Like, is it okay if we just kill Billy? Like, is it _that_ bad? I think we can. I don't think anyone's gonna mind. I'm gonna kill him, just so you know, if you could be my alibi that'd be great, but honestly I don't even care if I get caught. It’s self defense at this point. Justified. Hop won’t care.“

“No? Sorry, man. Your mom would actually murder me and, like, I don’t really wanna die right now, so?” Steve says. “I can buy you a new hat, dude. Seriously.”

“No, this is— _fine_. I’ll just clean it. And disinfect it. Boil it?” Sighing, Dustin adjusts the strap and, cringing, puts his hat back on. “At least it isn’t Mickey Mouse.”

“Whatever.” Billy says, fussing with his hair to get it all tucked away. “I look rad in everything anyways.”

 

—

 

Steve’s got an entire loaf of wonder bread spread out in front of him. Jelly and peanut butter jars opened up, scooping them onto slices while keeping an eye on Billy and being the human barricade between him and the fridge.

One second of looking away had left enough time for Billy to get his hand on a six-pack, but Steve has got long arms and big hands and isn’t a pushover even with no sleep so he gets ahold of it before Billy can pop one open.

Herding Billy into the kitchen had been simple enough, he’s not distracted like he’d been upstairs. He’s locked himself up tight, putting out a _don’t talk to me or look at me or even think about me_ vibe—maybe he hates Mickey Mouse _that_ much. Steve was a kid and he’d hated Donald Duck to his bones, so he can understand—but ignoring Billy isn’t something Steve’s been very good at, especially recently.

He sits Billy on one of the stools, pushing on his shoulders to direct him where to go. Tells him to stay. Pats him on the top of his new and old cap when Billy decides to bark like _the dog you apparently think I am, Harrington_. Billy just swats his hand away from him. Steve tries not to laugh too hard _right_ in his face.

Steve’s pretty sure they’ve already reached rock bottom when Billy crawled through his bedroom window bleeding, so he tries to be positive and then stay positive. The night can only get better. No more tears. No more anger. It’s too late for that and way too early in the morning too. Gets Billy the biggest glass of water he can—a novelty cup he got from a summer at Hawaii. Some Tylenol too.

But Billy doesn’t drink or touch the glass or the medicine. Just sits on the stool with his arms crossed, ignoring Steve while glaring at Steve. It doesn’t really make sense, but it’s effective and Steve clings to his positivity and starts making sandwiches.

Billy’s gonna eat them then he’s gonna drink his water then he’s gonna take his medicine if Steve has to shove it all down his throat by force. Tommy’s never been this difficult. Not even Carol who could outdrink grown alcoholics and still whip out a ballet move she learned in fifth grade and liked to climb fast food signs was never as difficult as Billy.

Will sticks to Billy’s side, sitting on the stool next to him. Staying quiet and shooting quick glances at Billy between staring down at his shoes and at the doorway, waiting for Dustin to come back from whatever _sterilizing process_ he’s up to in the laundry room. Red cheeked. A little too fidgety and nervous, but _stuck_.

Steve ignores that too. There’s nothing he can do about it anyways. You don’t call a guy out _for that_ in Hawkins unless you want to hurt them. He stacks the sandwiches. Makes a neat little pyramid type shape with them. Mentally wills himself to not be worried over something he can’t help or stop.

What he can do and what he does is tell Will to go put some music on.

“Won’t your neighbors mind?” Will says. He’s the polite one. The sweet one. The one who doesn’t deserve to get caught up in troublesome boys from the coast in _Indiana_ of all places.

He’s better than Steve.

“They’re never there and if they are, fuck’em.”

Will picks out Bon Jovi. Steve yells at him to turn it up, wants to feel the bass in his chest. It’s always been the louder the music the less empty the house feels. Now, he doesn’t need to feel less lonely, he just needs to keep himself awake and keep Billy up too.

Billy edges his way off his stool and Steve’s got the eyes of his mom on Christmas, preparing for her annual party.

“Uh uh. Sit. No beer. No. _Sit. Your. Ass. Down._ You gotta eat something, okay?” Steve says, waves his peanut butter covered knife in Billy’s face and Billy snarls at him, but he sits back down and it’s _nice_ for someone to just listen to him for once.

“You suck.” Billy says.

Steve hums. Licks some stray jelly off his thumb. Says sweetly, “Did you say _I'm amazing_ because, yeah, I totally am. You like crust or no crust?"

"Does it come with beer if I say crust?"

"All I can promise is I probably won't spit in it."

Billy's measuring him up right up until Steve's sliding the plate with a stack of sandwiches at him.

"Eat." Steve says.

"No."

"Eat, Hargrove."

"No, _Harrington_."

“You bled like a gallon onto my carpet and I’m gonna have to explain that to my clean freak parents, so, eat my delicious sandwiches.”

“I’d rather die, you red commie fuck.”

Dustin comes shuffling back into the kitchen. He slams his hat onto the counter in front of Billy. The ink is smeared, but it’s still _readable_. Apparently soap did nothing. Neither did detergent. Hot water, cold water, scrubbing it— _nothing_ seemed to do all that much against his dad’s custom pen and the imported ink inside of it.

The most Dustin could do was smear it. He says, _I’m pretty sure Billy cursed it. This is a cursed hat now._ Duct tape isn’t gonna do shit for it, but Steve still rips a piece off and tapes what he can over the visor.

“I’m not gonna bother swearing revenge on you since that’d be a waste of energy, but I do really, really hate you.” Dustin tells Billy, looking right at him and any nerves he might have had are gone along with his hat.

Billy shrugs. Manages to flip him off and slump against the counter without ever really acknowledging him. Dustin gives him the bird with both hands, but Billy isn’t even looking.

There’s no point in trying to get him to apologize, Steve gets the feelings Billy isn’t the type to say sorry and mean it.

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Steve offers. “It’s my fault, anyways.”

“It’s definitely not, but, it’s okay.” Dustin pokes at his hat. Stretches across the counter on his tip toes and grabs one of the sandwiches. Starts peeling the crust off. “Probably time for a new look anyways. Like, I can try something different with my hair.”

“Good idea.” Steve nudges the plate closer to Billy. Billy shoves it back at Steve hard enough it almost flies off the counter. Steve sends it back to him. Billy flicks it back with his fingers. The sound of the plate scraping across the counter, back and forth, over and over, more and more aggressive.

Dustin’s watching, he’s eaten half the sandwich and is shoving the other half in his mouth when he says, “you guys should totally arm wrestle for it.”

That’s all that needs to be said for Billy. He straightens up quick, shoves the sweater sleeve of his right arm up, slams his elbow on the counter, hand in the air and in position. Bicep tan and bulging. Fingers flexing. Eyes goddamn gleaming.

“When I win, I get every beer in the house.” Billy says with certainty. No _if’s_. Just _when_.

Steve’s not biting. “And if I win, you what? Eat the food I made for you? Gonna need to sweeten that pot ‘cause it smells like garbage from over here.”

Billy thinks on it. “You win, I’ll eat every sandwich and I’ll drive you to school till you get your crap car back.”

“Well, okay, it’s a BMW, so, you know— _and_ you drive me home?”

“Fine.”

“ _And_ to the arcade?” Dustin jumps in.

“Thought you didn’t like me?”

“I don’t, but I would marry the arcade and have 2.5 children with it if I could.”

“Weird. Really weird, dude. Whatever.” Billy says. “I’ll drive you and your nerds wherever the hell you want, deal?”

Dustin slams his hands on the counter, making Will jump. Says a quick _sorry_ then, “do it, Steve! Snap his arm off! Make him bleed!”

The _passion_ he says it with, how he really does _mean it_ , has Steve faltering. Stepping back. Saying, “damn, kid.”

But Steve does consider it. Considers Billy now, eyes bright and shining and lit on fire with the prospect. Considers the Billy who climbed into his room, hurt and calling himself a fag, who’s been locking himself up tighter and tighter as the alcohol works out of his system.

“You really wanna get wasted that bad, huh?” Steve says. Billy’s smile is bitter, lopsided and he laughs a little.

“Sobriety’s for suckers, haven’t you heard, pretty boy?”

He cracks his knuckles. He’s got big hands. Veins that stand out. Knuckles that have been busted. Not small or delicate like a girl’s at all.

Steve nods. “I get to pick the music.”

Billy pulls back, hand lowering. _Of course._ “No way.”

“Just on the way to school?”

“No Wham! or any other pussy shit.”

“ _Pussy shit_ is way off—“

“Steve.” Dustin says then pats his arm and actually has the guts to give him anything close to a pitying look. “It’s Wham!.”

“I like Wham!. . .” Will says. Dustin turns to him.

“Will. No. We can like Wham! but we can’t _say_ we like Wham!.”

“Finally the kid says something half-way decent.” Billy says.

“You’re both way off and Will, you’re my favorite by, like, seven thousand points—“ Steve ignores Dustin’s _there’s a point system?_ “And I call shotgun. Just an FYI to the room— _Dustin_.” Steve rolls up his sleeve, sets his elbow on the table and slaps his hand into Billy’s. “Get ready to have a car full of thirteen year olds who never shut up, Malibu Barbie.”

 

—

 

Dustin’s yelling in his ear. So is Will. Billy’s got those big blues locked onto him. Steve’s pretty sure he’s about to pull a muscle in his arm. His knuckles are ground to dust. His hand is gonna have a permanent red Billy Hargrove shaped dent in it. There are actual tears stinging at his eyes because _fuck_ does Billy have a grip on him.

But he’s got Billy sweating. He’s got Billy grinding his teeth and making that smug grin wobble.

Their palms are sweaty. Their fingers locked tight. Hands going as red as their faces, fingertips bone white. Veins pulsing.

Bon Jovi's singing _no one heard a single word you said/they should have seen it in your eyes/what was going around your head_. 

The sensation of Billy’s hand giving that one last inch and hitting the marble counter—Steve doesn’t care how lame he looks, he _whoops_ like a motherfucker and feels _good_ about it.

 

—

 

Winter in Hawkins is _cold_. There’s no other way to put it. The air is cold. The ground is cold. The trees are cold. The kind of cold that gets under your skin and into your lungs and stays there. The sunny days make it a little more bearable and the really sunny days where there aren’t any clouds and it’s just blue and a blazing sun to look up at make winter thaw for a few, wonderful hours before the cold comes barreling back to send you inside.

But this early in the morning, you don’t go bare foot without a jacket on and stand on cement outside in _the cold_ unless you’re Steve who’s born and bred Indiana winters and can’t sleep all that well anymore and likes to stare at the woods, waiting for something to _move_.

And he may not know all that much about California, but he knows it’s hot year round and he knows Billy can’t be enjoying sulking out in the backyard.

Steve gives him five minutes. Lets him cool off and hopes maybe he’ll come back inside on his own when his toes start to turn blue and _the cold_ gets him shivering, but this is Billy and Billy doesn’t do things the easy way unless Steve thinks he won’t then he will—this is him going left.

His bat is still upstairs. Steve wants to go get it, just in case. That’d be weird, though. He grabs the plate of sandwiches and the six-pack out of the refrigerator.

Billy’s sitting rigid on one of the patio chairs, patting at his chest then the sides of his shorts, muttering _where the fuck are my cigs_. Forgetting he’s wearing Steve’s clothes and all his stuff is still upstairs in the bathroom.

Steve grabs the chair next to Billy’s and flops down in it, sighing happily at getting to sit. The cold of the plastic feels sort of nice on his back and he knows it’ll be way too cold in a minute, but that’s in the future and not his problem right now.

Billy’s got his feet off the ground, his knees at his chest like he was in Steve’s dad’s office. The light from inside is enough for Steve to see Billy’s toes aren’t blue, but his face and his nose are red and Billy’s not at all happy to see him by the glare he’s sending his way.

Which is why Steve’s got the beer.

“Here.” Steve tosses Billy a can. Billy catches it, surprised. “And, because, like, I’m seriously the most awesome person,” Steve holds out the plate too, takes a sandwich for himself off the top and starts eating it. Says, “these are the best PB and J’s you’re ever gonna eat, man.”

Steve eats his and Billy stares him and the plate down and is probably just going to tip the plate over, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he did and Steve will only be half-annoyed as he should be—but then Billy rolls his eyes, big enough to make his earrings whip around, takes one without looking.

His first bite is miffed and Steve laughs into the collar of his shirt. Sets the plate down on the arms of both their chairs, balancing it between them.

“That wasn’t a fair match.” Billy tells him.

“Sure.”

“I could rip your arm out of its fucking socket if I could use my left hand.”

“Good thing we did righties then.” Steve flexes his right arm, lays a loud kiss on his bicep and grins the biggest shit eating grin he can at Billy.

“Ugh. Please.” Billy flexes his left arm and _yeah_ his bicep is bigger even through knitted wool Steve can’t really compare and honestly Steve isn’t sure Billy’s exaggerating by much when it comes to ripping things out of their sockets.

_Thank you house for that cut._

They go through the entire plate, Steve eats more than Billy, but Billy is eating and that’s all Steve wanted, camaro rides or not. The six-pack disappears too, Billy chugs most of the cans because he’s quicker than Steve and he does this awful, stupid thing where he crushes one of the cans against his forehead, flattening it.

So dumb and hands down _the stupidest_ and he’s seen Tommy do the exact same thing hundreds of times, but Billy doing it is _different_ and distracts Steve long enough for Billy to get his hands on the last beer of the pack.

“Shoulda told me the gremlins were gonna be here.” Billy says. His eyes are going glassy like before. He’s gone slack, relaxing on the chair. Legs splayed out, wide and long and his foot is almost touching Steve’s. The cold not bothering him despite the goosebumps even Steve can see running all along his bare skin.

“They kind of just showed up and it’s hard to say no to them—not usually, but tonight, yeah.” Steve says. He can see his own breath drifting over to Billy’s. Pulls out his pack of smokes and lights a cigarette. Lights one for Billy too and gets a big, honest smile when he hands it over.

Billy takes a long drag. Blows a smoke ring. It drifts up and up until it’s out the light and disappears into the early morning.

“How do you do that?” Steve says.

“It’s all in the tongue.” Billy does it again, turns his head towards Steve this time, relaxed and red lips pursing together in a kiss before parting. The ring goes flying over his head, but Steve’s not really paying much attention.

 

—

 

Between them and the kids—Dustin and Billy—it’s easy. Less spine-snapping tense than before.

Which is Weird. The Weirdest. Weirder than his mom asking to have tea with him or creepy crawlies actually existing and being a lot bigger than Steve imagined as a kid or Billy and him being anything other than two guys who go to the same school and play on the same basketball team who occasionally fight and hate each other.

Just.

 _Weird_.

He’s changing the definition in his head.

Weird. Adjective— _he thinks_. Origin—fuck if he knows. Definition: real monsters _and_ Billy Hargrove getting along with kids.

 _Getting along_ is probably stretching it, though, but since no one’s dead or yelling or threatening vengeance and meaning it— _Billy is getting along with the kids_.

 

—

 

The thing is, when it comes to the _absolutely no drinking_ rule, his dad never pays all that much attention when it comes to how many beers there are in the house. His whiskey in his office? _That_ he knows and if it’s off by half an inch or at all watered down, he will track Steve down and give him the same talk he’s given him dozens of times at this point, but still thinks is effective.

It probably just makes him feel better, like he’s fulfilled his bi-monthly duties of being his dad. Steve just has to offer up the _I’m sorry and will never do it again_ spiel like his dad expects from him.

His mom doesn’t notice. She has a standard order at the grocers and gets it all delivered and if Steve adds some last minute beer to the list, no one’s going to care.

Most of the time neither one of them are home to notice anyways.

_Whatever._

Which means the beer in the fridge is pretty much up for grabs and can stack up. _Which means_ Billy’s got sticky fingers and the sun is about to come up in an hour and Steve seems to be the only one who’s missed an entire night of sleep.

Dustin and Will are wide eyed and bouncing on their heels. _Being young and all that shit_ , Steve guesses.

Still, he tries to keep Billy from going overboard. He’s the tired human fencing keeping Billy out of Happy Black Out Drunk Land.

Except Will is playing the errand boy and sneaking Billy beer while Steve is playing a _not as effective as he thought_ barrier.

“This one—“ Billy says, winking at Will because there are levels to a Billy Hargrove Drinking and this one is _calling everyone sweetheart and embracing the 60s_. “This one I like. That one—“ he points to Dustin with his beer, “—that one. Nah. This lil guy. Mi amigo. A fucking plus to his mama.”

Steve feels a little bad for Will. The kid’s gonna melt any second now.

 

—

 

Dustin picks a movie and pops it into the VCR.

Steve’s grabbed the corner spot on the couch, kicked his feet up on the one edge of the coffee table that isn’t covered in VHS tapes Dustin’s somehow planning to watch this weekend or Dustin’s campaign notes—Will’s drawings are gone and were probably shoved away back inside his backpack. Billy’s right beside him, knee to knee, despite the acres of available couch space.

 _Is this weird,_ does Dustin think it’s weird, does Will—Steve refuses to turn his head left and look at Billy because then there’s no question to it being weird or not.

“Lord of the Rings? The movie? It’s a classic.” Dustin says. He’s got his hands on his hips and if that’s what Steve looks like when he does it he’s never doing it again.

Billy’s got his arms crossed and his legs too. He’s fired up and fuck Steve is looking. Goddamnit, _fucking Hargrove_.

Billy says,“this movie is the creepiest and Lord of the Rings sucks ass.”

“I don’t think I heard you because that makes literally no sense.”

Billy leans forward with his hands on his knees. “Tolkien is garbage.”

“Tolkien is _godly_.”

“ _Narnia_ beats out Lord of the Rings by fucking miles.”

Dustin flaps around, mouth like a fish out of water. Will’s not helping him out, too busy staring at Billy. “My brain just broke. _What are you even talking about?_ It’s Lord of the Fucking Rings. Nothing beats it. It’s the epitome of fantasy.”

“If I want to know what a tree looks like, I don’t need a thousand fucking words to get my dick hard.”

“That’s called world building, moron.”

“It’s called being up your own ass, _moron_. It takes Tolkein 500 pages to get to the point of _anything_.”

“With every ounce of sincerity in my _soul_ , you’re wrong.”

“I wouldn’t even wipe my dead grandpa’s ass with a page from that overrated shit.”

Dustin’s mouth is hanging open and Steve wishes he read either one of these things because he’d probably get a bigger laugh out of this if he had.

“Will! Back me up here!”

Will’s a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi.

“Um, I mean. I like Narnia, too. You know. They’re both—they’re both good?” Will says, eyes jumping back and forth between Dustin and Billy, his face getting redder and redder as they both stare him down.

“I have no friends.” Dustin tells the room.

 

—

 

Steve must drift off between when the little guy decides to take the ring to the volcano-place and when Dustin starts lecturing _the room_ on the themes of Lord of the Rings and _why_ they’re _the most amazing_. Steve checked out of that conversation a while ago.

Steve wakes up because there’s a _sound_. Not like the _thuds_ from a few hours ago. Not scary. Not hinting at a _horrible awful no good death_ involving way too many teeth. The lights are still on. A movie is still playing on the television. Dustin and Will—after looking for them for a few heart stopping seconds of not seeing them—are by the door way, peaking their heads out around it.

The sound gains speed. Lilts up. Clanks with force, then gentles again, morphing into a song, one that’s building up and familiar.

Steve doesn’t recognize the sound right away. It’s been awhile since he’s heard it and when he had it never sounded like _this_.

And then he knows exactly what it is.

 _The fazioli_.

Billy’s sitting behind the piano, a six-pack of beer next to him on the bench, an open can sitting on top of the piano. Playing it. _Actually playing it._

“He threw the controller and stormed outta the room ‘cause I beat his ass at Combat.” Dustin whispers to Steve.

“He kind of got some more, um, beer.” Will adds.

He hesitates on moving from his spot. Billy’s back is to him, he probably doesn’t know he’s being watched. The room’s got a vibe to it now and Steve doesn’t want to ruin it. It’s like peace is settling into the house, telling Steve there’s not going to be anymore surprises.

Still, he wants to get closer, to see what Billy’s face is like when he’s playing so he approaches slowly, keeps his footsteps light and freezes when he circles around to see—this is the Billy back in the school parking lot, picking Steve’s BMW open. Focused with none of the bottomless anger that simmers off of Billy, sticking to him like cologne. This is Billy stripped clean of his clothes and his tension, floating on alcohol and instant coffee, his fingers fly over the keys and it’s so familiar—

Billy humming it in the shower, playing with Steve’s hair.

The same song.

Everything locks up. His knees. His arms. His head. He’s not irritated he’s drinking or worried what his parents will say when they see someone’s touched _their fazioli_ , only ever been played a handful of times by his cousin at Christmas.

Billy glances his way and sees Steve and their eyes meet and he stops. The keys stutter together, the song ends with a clanging mess.

“Most guys who drink as much as you do would be passed out by now.” Steve says, voice soft.

“Probably ‘cause they’re lame ass posers.”

“You didn’t have to stop playing.”

Billy shrugs. He downs the rest of his beer and Steve—quick—takes back what’s left of the six-pack.

“Fuck you too, Harrington.” Billy says without any heat, embarrassed even. It could be his lack of sleep, but Steve thinks he might be floating right now he’s enjoying this so much.

“You’re really,” Steve wants to say _awesome_ and _amazing_ because that’s how he sounded, “like, good at that.”

“Nah.” Billy’s got his head tucked in, the visor of the Mickey Mouse cap hiding his face. He pokes at a few keys randomly. “Besides, this fuckin’ thing’s outta tune.”

“No one ever plays it.”

It hadn’t been this awkward when Steve had taken Billy’s pants off in the shower. Dustin’s giving him a weird _what are you doing?_ stink eye and he definitely deserves it.

The two of them come over.

“What song was that anyways?” Steve says.

Billy stops trying to hide, he stares at Steve, confused.

“You’re joking.”

“No?”

"The Wilson sisters?"

"Uh."

"You know this.” Billy says. “Ann and. . . "

"Jessica?"

"Pretty boy, I know you got brains in there somewhere. I’m not drunk enough to fall for that.” Billy gets bored with waiting the split second he pauses though, "she's got the same name as the bitch who just dumped you for that, whats-his-face, garbage boy Byers.”

No matter how entertaining it was to watch Billy play, Dustin jumps.

"That's Will's brother and he's not _garbage_ and she's not a bitch and Max isn’t a—“ Dustin punches Billy's arm then immediately pales, "oh god.”

Everyone goes tense, Steve’s ready to jump in and grab Billy away from Dustin, except Billy doesn’t explode. He barely reacts. Just glances down at his arm and back at Dustin, judging his punch, being disappointed in it, and sighing—put upon and seriously not impressed.

He turns to Will, ignoring Dustin, says, "no offense, but your brother's a dick."

"'I think I—I might have to take some," Will coughs, "offense. I think."

"You do you, little man.”

This doesn’t sit right with Dustin though. “Are you seriously just gonna ignore what he—“

“—Holy shit. Are you _seriously_ expecting Harrington to defend the chick who fucked around on him _and_ the guy who’s dick she rode off on?”

Dustin gets ruffled. So does Steve, but for different reasons that all have to do with Nancy riding Jonathan’s _dick_ being brought up. Steve doesn’t have enough awake brain cells to listen to this, dealing with it is a whole different thing he won’t even bother trying.

“You think Aslan is better than _Gandalf_ , so you don’t get to have an opinion that matters. Ever.”

“He’s a _lion._ ” Billy says, throwing his hands in the air, like that’s all you ever need to say. That’s it. _He’s a lion_.

Dustin’s gone bug eyed and Steve’s never seen him this annoyed. The only other time he’s seen the vein in Dustin’s forehead make an appearance was when he tried to explain the difference between an orc and a troll to Steve.

Admittedly, Steve had understood by the second repeat explanation. He just liked to get Dustin going. The kid _is_ fun to rile up.

“Gandalf is a freaking angel who’s existed since the big freakin’ bang—“

“—Aslan is literally God so he beats out your white wizard angel BS. And he’s a fuckin’ bitchin’ lion.”

“Oh my god, who cares if he’s a lion, lions aren’t even that impressive, they’re just big cats that eat zebras—“

“—fuck you.”

Steve gets between them. Starts clapping. “This is super dumb. Gandalf is, I guess, good? Dustin? Aslan too. Fuck. I don’t—I don’t care. I’m not exactly—I don’t hate _them_ , but. Like Dustin said, Billy just doesn’t know how to, you know, be a person. Let’s put it on the fucking pile and deal with it in the morning.” Billy says _go to hell_. Steve snaps his fingers. “Heart! It’s Heart. Got it in one.”

“This lil fucker got it two chords in.” Billy points his thumb at Will who nervously smiles down at his shoes.

 _Well fuck you too, Billy Hargrove._ “It’s _Heart_ not Meatloaf or, like, Queen. _Chill_.”

“Just admit it, you like Corey Hart. Sunglasses at Night’s your favorite song, you piece of shit.

”Okay, one? That’s a solid song. So. And two, fuck it. Yeah. I do like Corey Hart.”

Billy shakes his head. “Nasty.”

“Do you,” Will stammers out, “do you know any Bonnie Tyler?”

 

—

 

Dustin gets his hands on a beer. He has a can and has it open and is actually _drinking it_ and Steve can just imagine the look on Claudia _I made you lunch and cut off the crust of your sandwich and baked the most delicious and love-filled cookies you’ll ever have and hugged you like your my baby boy too_ Henderson’s face when she smells the alcohol on Dustin’s breath or his clothes or just _knows_.

Steve isn’t the one to take it away from him, though he’s got his hand out and is halfway to grabbing it and chugging it down himself.

Billy’s the one who snatches it away. Chugs it. Spills half of it down the front of the sweater Steve lent him.

“That,” Billy says pointedly at Dustin who’s pouting at the wrong and worst person, “is because you suck.”

“ _You_ suck.”

“You’re like ten.” Billy pulls up the end of his sweater, wipes his mouth with it and shows off his toned stomach. Steve stares. “Babies can’t handle beer anyways.”

“I take it back.” Dustin grits out. “I swear vengeance on you and will defeat you.”

Billy snorts. Says, “you wish.” Tosses the empty can at Dustin—who catches it on instinct and immediately lobs it back at Billy who _catches it_ and crushes it against his head like it’s a skill to show off and intimidate a nerdy not-even-a-teen, all the while grinning. Gestures with his right hand _bring it on_.

 

—

 

The sun is up and spilling into the kitchen and then the den.

Steve dozes to the sounds of Dustin challenging Billy to some game on the Atari—Billy is worse than Steve at video games and that fact alone makes Steve feel stupidly good about himself.

He’s almost asleep when Billy comes to sit by him on the couch. He jumps on it, making Steve bounce. Their thighs are touching and so are their shoulders. Billy has squished himself up against Steve with an entire empty couch of options to sit at, but he’s right by Steve’s side and Steve’s the dumbest guy in Hawkins to like how Billy’s a solid wall of warmth pressing into him. Steve curls towards it instinctively, but Dustin and Will are here. It’s not that kind of night.

“You drank an entire six-pack. And a half. Almost two, actually.” Steve says.

“Yep.”

“You just wanna feel crappy, don’t you?”

“Icing on life’s cake and shit.” Billy says. He leans his head on the cushion right beside Steve’s. The television reflects in his eyes, making the blue shine. “Why was Max at that house?”

“Hargrove—“

“Don’t bullshit me. Just tell me.” Billy says plainly. No anger at what had happened there. Just a need to know in his voice.

“You won’t believe me.”

“I don’t care.”

Steve stares up at the ceiling. Dustin is yelling _fuck fuck fuck_. Will is cheering him on.

Billy’s still waiting. His eyes heavy. His breathing deep. Words slurring together. Nearly asleep, but hanging on just enough to hear what Steve is going to say. Steve could wait him out. He’ll be asleep in a minute, he’s sure and what are the chances of Billy remembering anyways.

“She helped us stop a—a monster.” Steve says. Keep it simple. Keep it short. Vague on any details. _My friend changed my tire, dad._

He feels ridiculous though. The whole monster thing _is_ ridiculous. Hawkins shouldn’t be anything other than boring as fuck, but now it’s scary as fuck and saying it out loud is just _dumb_.

Billy frowns and pushes away from Steve, so he stops him, catches him by the sleeve, fingers hooking on the knitting of the sweater. “I’m not—I swear I’m not bullshitting you. There really was a monster.”

Billy flops back on the couch. Knee knocking into Steve’s.

“What? Like Godzilla?”

“Like—smaller, way smaller. More dog meets a cabbage—I don’t— _some plant_ kind of monster _thing_.”

“Uh huh. I bet it has big, pointy teeth too?”

“A lot of ‘em.”

“Goes hairy on the full moon?”

“More like scaly all the time.”

Billy’s eyes slide shut and he’s soft now. Pliant and melting into the couch. His voice is quiet, tired, getting lost in the air between them.

“And you guys are, what, the villagers with pitchforks?”

“Sorta? I have a bat.”

“So _that’s_ why. Scary, dude.” Billy’s head falls onto Steve’s shoulder. His words slur, melding together in a pleasant low hum. “You know what, Harrington? It’s dumb how even when you lie to me I know I’m still gonna come back for more. Fucking stupid.”

“I’m not—you’re not stupid.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“ _It does._ ”

“Sure.” Billy sighs, nuzzles into Steve’s shoulder, nose digging in, short sleeve being pulled up and there are his lips, wet and warm on Steve’s bare skin. If only he wasn’t drunk and Steve’s eyelids weren’t so heavy and everything wasn’t so warm.

Billy’s words start to run together badly, but Steve figures out what he’s saying. “Why’re you being so— _fuckin’ nice_ —to me anyways? Didn’t I beat that outta ya?”

Steve doesn’t think about it. He shrugs. “Cause I want to.”

“Freak.” Billy’s laugh melts. His breathing deepens. It doesn’t take long before Steve’s asleep too, thinking tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be a good day.

 

—

 

Steve wakes up at eleven with a crick in his neck that makes turning to the left literally impossible, slumped over in the sofa, with Billy’s head on his lap and Steve’s hand is on the middle of Billy’s chest. Billy has dried drool on the corner of his mouth.

Dustin is standing over him. He has an uncapped black sharpie in his hand.

He blames being up until god knows when and the grogginess making his head slow to react.

“If you drew on me.” Steve whispers.

“I definitely didn’t do that.”

“What the hell did you do then?”

“Nothing. _Yet_.” Dustin whispers _too loudly_ and points to Billy, eyebrows wiggling and Billy fucking sniffles, turns his head to shove his nose into Steve’s thigh. _God._

“Don’t. _Don’t._ ”

“This is our only chance, Steve. We gotta do it now or die trying.”

“ _He will kill all of us._ ”

“He doesn’t like Lord of the Rings, _Steven_. He doesn’t deserve your mercy.”

“Steve, dude. Just. _Steve_.”

Dustin disappears from Steve’s limited, blurry, half asleep vision—the couch has actually swallowed him and he doesn’t quite have the energy to move just yet and Billy is _so freaking warm_ Steve blinks and then he’s yawning and dozing off.

He opens his eyes to Dustin and Will bent over Billy.

“Should we draw on his face? What should we draw? _What do we draw?_ ” Dustin is holding the felted tip of the sharpie an inch from Billy’s nose.

“I don’t know. Like a— _a you know?_ ” Will says and he’s already blushing. Dustin grins at him.

“Perfect! Great idea, you do it!”

“No way!” Will hisses, pushes the marker away from him and gets ink all over his palm. Dustin is insistent.

“Come on! You draw way better than me, especially dicks!”

Will’s entire face goes firetruck red and his eyes grow wide enough to fall right out. He actually _squeaks_.

“Why would you—Oh my god, Dustin, shut up.” He looks to Billy and then Steve—making eye contact with him, even though he’s half asleep, hurls him into a world of second hand embarrassment on his behalf. Will shoves at Dustin’s shoulder. “You wanna do it, then you do it.”

He marches off. A door slams. Steve guesses it’s the bathroom considering this is Will, the reigning title holder for _most polite of the nerds_.

Dustin keeps his eyes to where Will went, then looks back at Billy. Then Steve.

“Maybe not?”

“Good call, dude.” Steve says, already falling back to sleep, hand still on Billy’s chest, Billy like a blanket on his lap. Everything is just so damn warm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have nothing against Wham!, I swear
> 
> 2\. Billy and his drinking is a Thing that’ll be addressed (also don’t take Tylenol to avoid a hangover, it’s one of those outdated things people used to do)
> 
> 3\. Will has a crush on literally any cute boy he sees, like, literally any boy, l i t e r a l l y
> 
> 4\. Billy’s taste in literature will be explained next chapter, dont worry, there is a why 
> 
> 5\. Billy in makeup is my Most Favorite 
> 
> My [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

 

Billy stops by the bonfire. Chugs down jager and American Colonial—the only beer this town seems to have. Dry swallows whatever pills Tommy’s offering in the hopes Billy will lower his standards enough to blow him.

Tommy complains about Steve not coming out to the bonfires anymore. Gets twitchy at night. Jumpy. _He’s scared of the dark,_ Tommy tells him. Whispers it too loud. Lips to Billy’s ear. It’s a secret. He laughs. Billy hums. Tommy’s hard against his leg and Billy’s not that desperate to get off. Ignores him for the most part.

Tommy’s _dumb_. Not the kind of dumb Steve is. He’s the dumb you side eye and use only when their older brother isn’t around.

He parks a block away from Steve’s. Thinks the walk’ll calm him down. It doesn’t.

He’s leaning against a tree in Steve’s backyard, lighting up a joint. Nerves jumbled up. Hiding out in the bushes like a perv. A knot on the tree digging into the side of his head. The cold turning his fingers numb. The lights are on inside, gold spills out onto Indiana grass.

Billy thinks about leaving. No matter how trashed he is, he knows what’s best. This isn’t it.

He stays where he is.

 

—

 

Neil isn’t banging his fist on the door. Telling Billy to get up. _Saturday’s no excuse to sleep in_. No Susan singing that _good morning_ song at him through the walls.

It’s _quiet_. Billy doesn’t wake with a start. He wakes up slowly. Sweating. Eyelids stuck together. Lips chapped. Mouth tacky and dry. Entire head _throbbing_.

He’s on a velvet couch he doesn’t recognize with a blue blanket covering him. He’s so warm. Hot. He’s sinking into the cushions and he could fall back to sleep without any effort.

The sun’s out for once and it’s beaming right into his face from the window and it _hurts_.

He throws an arm over his eyes, he shifts to lie on his back, hide his face in the crook of his elbow. Groans low.

That little bit of movement makes his sore head thump louder, pound harder behind his eyes. Mind dizzy. His mouth tastes like shit. His eyes make a scraping sound when he blinks.

He holds his breath. Digs his nails into velvet. Concentrates. Works through the pain and the haze to just _think_.

Billy reaches up and pulls off the cap he’s wearing. Flips it around to see what it is.

Mickey Mouse stares back at him. Judges him.

He tosses it.

 

—

 

Last night comes in broken pieces. Nothing quite fits together or makes much sense. He thinks he’s made it all up. This couch doesn’t belong to Steve and Billy hadn’t made an absolute mess out of last night.

He must be imagining it— _he needs to be imagining it_. Whatever he took from Tommy fucked with his head. What else is there to do in Hawkins other than get drunk and jerk off to golden boy Steve Harrington?

There’s just no way he’s in Steve’s house.

Billy kicks off the blanket. Gets his feet under him and stands up. Does it slowly and refuses to let his knees buckle. The air is heavy. Weighted down. It’s a struggle to catch his breath. His arms are lead and his legs shake.

He squares up his feet. Plants them on the plush carpeting. Squints his eyes to keep the sun at bay the best he can. Plans a path through the VHS tapes and sleeping bags and blankets and spilled chips and bowls to get out of the room.

The denial doesn’t last. It doesn’t even linger. It never does. The world’s fucked up like that.

Billy’s left out in the cold. Reality sucks.

 

—

 

The first steps aren’t to get out of the room. It’s to get a smoke and maybe find some balance in the universe through marlboros. But he doesn’t have his cigarettes or his lighter or his _anything_.

His hands pat at the sides of a pair of pocketless gym shorts. Underneath are a pair of teal briefs that are definitely not his. His left hand’s throbbing. He’s wearing a sweater he’s never seen before in his life.

He picks at it. The wool’s soft. Not itchy or musty. This is _expensive_. This is a Steve Harrington kind of sweater to go with his Steve Harrington house.

There’s a heel stomping on his brain trying to knock his eyes out. There’s so much light in the room. Looking’s becoming an issue and Billy rubs at his eyes till he’s got bright sparks lighting off in the rosy darkness. A sharp sting shocking his entire left hand.

There’s a noise to the right of him. From another room. Right next to this one.

Breathing—he _can’t_ breathe.

His vision starts to turn, blurs, the room spins into a block of beige and all he can think is he _hopes to christ_ he hits his head on the coffee table before he runs into Steve.

The edge of the table is so appealing Billy wants to take a dive for it. He’s always been a good swimmer.

This is Steve’s house. Steve is still here. He’s _dumb_ , but he’s not stupid enough to leave a guy like Billy alone in his house. Probably waiting to rub last night into his face. Dying to show the whole town what a joke Billy Hargrove is—shove his finger in Billy’s face and say, _here he is, here’s the fuckin’ queer_.

You don’t knock a guy out and then just expect them to be _okay_ with it. Normal people aren’t like that. Normal people get punched and _hate_ the person behind the fist. Normal people don’t roll with the hit. Normal people don’t just take it and move on. Normal people can handle their own _dad_ hugging them.

The anger is hot when it comes, it spills inside of him, sets him on fire and razes him inside out. Billy bites his fist through the bandage. Covers his mouth. His eyes are starting to sting. He wants to puke.

What a joke.

He digs his thumb into the bloody spot on the gauze. Fresh red spreads and seeps through. The pain is instant. Rings loud and echoes through him. Makes him actually wince. He wakes himself up with it. Snaps himself back together. Pushes himself to just _move_.

Just fucking move.

All it takes is one step. One step and then he can get his shit and get out.

The panic rises in his chest. Grabs him by the throat. Leaves the shame and the anger churning inside his gut in the dust.

He grits his teeth and moves the fuck on and gets the fuck out.

 

—

 

Billy’s clothes aren’t upstairs. Neither are his keys. But his smokes are in Steve’s bathroom—the rich fuck—so is his lighter. His boots. His watch. His _rubbers_ , too.

He’s smiling, grabbing his pack and sticking a cigarette in his mouth. Flicks open his lighter. Already sighing. Lights it before he realizes what he’s doing. Lingering isn’t in his cards today. He can’t even appreciate the nauseating stripes on Steve’s walls.

He doesn’t have time for this.

That’s the trouble with hangovers. They muddle everything up. Things that should be obvious are out of reach and everything important—like getting out of dodge—gets put in the backseat. If Billy’s not careful he’s going to forget where he’s driving in the first place.

Billy flushes the condoms. Takes one last deep, deep, _lungs about to burst if god exists and had any mercy_ deep pull then flushes his cigarette too.

 

—

 

Billy flicks the lights off. Better for it to be dark.

He sits on the lid of the toilet and yanks his socks on. Then his boots. Doesn’t look in the mirror once. He knows what he’ll see. He doesn’t need a mirror for that. Doesn’t _want_ to see that. Feeling it is already bad enough. Seeing it just means remembering it then reliving it and Billy’s got no intentions on remembering last night or today or even tomorrow. If he’s lucky he won’t remember the last week.

He’s going to find Tommy or Tommy’s brother or the nearest party and get so wasted he forgets his own name and who Steve Harrington even is.

Steve won’t have the balls to bring it up at school. Not if Billy does what he should’ve done the first second he realized what was going on in his own head and scare Steve off for good. No more playing. No more _trying_. He’s done. He has to be.

 

—

 

His eyes are bloodshot when he meets his reflection’s. His skin’s clammy. His hair’s _frizzy_ and it’s obvious he slept in a baseball cap. It’s awful. Fucked. _What the fuck._

The spot where Neil had gotten him is turning blue. It’s gonna be an ugly one.

He rubs his thumb over it. Feels the heat. The ache when he presses down. It’s a waste of time to be worrying at it. He wears bruises just as a good as he wears a henley or his denim jacket. This is just a cut. This is just a bruise. Neither of them matter. This is the same old shit. This is Billy’s bread and butter.

He needs to find his keys. _That_ matters. That’s life and death.

Billy goes through every nook in the bathroom. Finds a comb and tries to unflatten his hair a little—it doesn’t do _anything_ , just makes it frizzier, christ—then there’s the three cans of Farrah Fawcett hairspray under the sink that make him pause and just _marvel_ at King Steve.

 

—

 

There’s no considering Steve has his keys. That’s not an option.

He goes through every nook in the bathroom then moves on to Steve’s room to find an old bandage in the bin. It matches the one he has on now. Bloodier, though. Steve had been _gentle_. He can’t stomach to look at it for long.

He goes through Steve’s desk, skips over the box of condoms—can’t look at those either otherwise he’s gonna lose it, sees the note he scribbled out in a panic at lunch, trying to undercut the _I’m gonna suck your dick no matter what grade you got_ message between the lines by calling Steve a _fucknut_ and crossing his fingers Steve doesn’t read too much into it.

Billy unfolds it. Reads it. Can’t see anything but what he didn’t want Steve to see.

But it’s in his drawer. Steve kept it. _It’s in his drawer, next to his rubbers._ Billy doesn’t know what to think of that.

He plucks at the edges of his bandage. Tears at the material with his fingernails because he’s honest-to-god nervous and he’s _fidgeting_. This wasn’t just _one guy doing another guy a solid_ kind of nice.

Steve’s got these big hands. Calloused. Strong. What gets him is how gentle they were last night. Snapshots of Steve’s fingers on his knuckles float through his head, dreamlike. Cleaning up his cut. Wrapping his hand. Holding onto him. Holding him.

Steve’s soft. Billy’s never met _soft_ before.

 

—

 

 _Keys_ , Billy reminds himself. Head gone off to the one place he can’t let himself go. Focuses on the pain in his hand. The drumming _THUD THUD THUD_ in his head.

Checks the closet. The dresser—finds out he’s not misremembering, he’s definitely wearing a pair of Steve’s underwear. The fact stumps him, makes him think too much.

Under Steve’s bed there’s nothing but some dusty clothes. Under his mattress are porn mags. Big tits. Wet cunts. Girls all over. Not a dick in sight. Billy’s got one end of the mattress lifted over his head, tilting it so he can see underneath. His arms start to shake.

There’s no reason to check under the bed. Billy’s a moron. The biggest moron in the shittiest small _who the fuck cares_ town in America. His eyes start to sting, so he drops the bed. Doesn’t bother trying to be quiet. He’ll knock Steve’s nose in if he sees him and he almost hopes he does.

His stomach goes queasy and he has to stop, bend over and brace himself on his knees, hands turning to fists. Vision going wonky. Black spots appear and start to swim. The carpet moves and Billy works hard to just _breathe_ , to keep breathing and not empty out whatever’s left inside him he didn’t get to last night.

A few seconds pass. The house stops moving. Billy can see all too clearly the blood stains all over the carpet.

Billy doesn’t get it. _He doesn’t fucking get it._

He covers his face. Goes from bent over to a squat. Breathes warm air back into his face and presses his fingers into his eyes till the pressure hurts. Feels his body rejecting him. Shutting down. It’s seen what a fuck up he is and wants out. Billy wants out too. It’s not fair.

This was going to be his chance with Steve. Suck him off. Let him jizz on his face. Swallow him down. He’d let Steve come all over his hair if he wanted to, fantasized about it since Tommy pointed him out at the Halloween party.

An entire week of getting hard just at the sight of Steve’s dumb Schwinn bike locked up in the racks at school. Having to jack off in a stall, fist in his mouth to keep quiet. He’s never had a problem making noise before, had to be light on his feet with Neil around, but Steve just pulled it out of him even when he wasn’t _there_.

He’d gotten off with his fingers stuffed in his mouth, knowing by Friday he’d have the real Steve to do what he wanted with.

Then Neil had to go and break his months long record and act like he gave a shit about him.

Billy’s the definition of a fuck up.

 

—

 

He decides he’s going to hotwire his car.

Fixing it will be a nightmare and Neil will give him _the most_ shit about it and he doesn’t want to hurt his camaro like that—she deserves better—but he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he runs into Steve between here and the front door. Can’t risk what he could do.

The thing is, he just really, _really_ needs to not be in Steve’s house or on his street or see his face or be remotely close to sober right now, _which means_ abandoning his keys.

Steve’ll give them back. His clothes too. He’s sure of it. That’s what good guys do in movies, they give the shit back to the person even if the person is Billy.

Later, though. Once Billy’s drunk his brain into nonexistence. After that, Steve can shove his own foot up his ass.

 

—

 

He’s lost an earring. Why not. _Whatever._ He can live without it. Yeah, it’s one of his nicer ones, but also and most importantly, fuck sticking around here any longer. He’s going to leave skid-marks on all the nice hardwood floor from how fast he skedaddles.

He puts his watch back on. It’s three in the afternoon _somehow_. Grabs the rest of his shit. Gets downstairs. The second step from the bottom creaks and Billy’s heart flies out of his chest. He freezes. Holds his breath to listen for anyone coming his way, except his head is throbbing and he’s got blood rushing through his ears, heart hammering away. If he could hear Steve over all this noise he’d be shocked straight.

But there’s no one. He makes it to the bottom step then the ground floor and the front door is only two big foot steps away when he’s spotted.

“Morning, sunshine!” Steve calls out to him, appearing out of nowhere. He’s leaning against a piano, grinning wide, hip cocked and smug like he’s been there all morning, just over Billy’s shoulder.

Billy can’t tell if that grin is King Steve’s and he’s getting ready to aim and fire, put Billy out of his misery or—Billy doesn’t want to even consider the other option because it’s _not_ an option.

Whatever’s going on behind that smile, it’s too bright and loud and happy to be thrown his way. But there it is. Right on Steve’s face, sitting between matching dimples, flashing bright white teeth and as far as Billy can tell, he’s the only one here—it’s just for him.

Billy’s head races his stomach to see which one shrivels up first.

Gorgeous. Pretty. _Perfect_. Billy’s being dazzled and it sucks. All he can think of his how frizzy his hair is sticking in all directions but the one he wants, stuck in borrowed clothes that do jackshit for him, and he feels like the bottom of a gutter in Los Angeles.

On an average day Billy doesn’t stick his nose up at the idea of getting run over, but right now he really does just want to be struck down and put out of his misery. At least then Steve won’t have to look at him when he’s like this.

Billy does not wear a hangover well.

“I don’t know about California, but running off with someone else’s gym shorts is just plain rude in these here parts.” Steve drawls, putting on a thick country accent that has no business with Indiana or being _hot_.

They’re standing barely two feet apart now. Billy is overrun with the memory and the warm, ridiculous sensation of touching Steve’s toes with his own and Steve laughing against his cheek.

Billy’s face erupts, goes blindingly hot and he’s so horrified with himself he circles round to being completely pissed off.

He doesn’t shy away, try to hide how red he’s gone. Yeah, he might have been trying to slink out unnoticed, but he’s not about to give Steve the satisfaction of confirming it.

He glares right at him, bites out, “that mean you _do_ know about stealing a guy’s car keys?”

Steve’s eyes widen, not expecting that to be the first thing Billy says to him, and blurts out a laugh.

“Why,” Steve says, all smiles, “you going somewhere?”

Billy grinds his teeth. He could punch him, he’s in swinging range—Steve should know better. An idiot. A moron. An out of this world dumbass.

“My keys.” Billy says. “Give’m over, Harrington.”

“How’s the hand?”

Billy does nothing more than twitch his fingers. Doesn’t look at the bandage or show how it stings every time he moves a finger.

“I’ve had worse.”

Steve rolls his eyes, his entire body swaying backwards. “Yeah, okay, tough guy. I got some more stuff, let me change it.”

“My keys—“

“—Seriously, it looks like you almost hacked it off. You should go to an actual doctor—“

“—Jesus, I’m fine. _Drop it._ ”

“Stitches aren’t that bad, I got, like, fourteen of ‘em once. I mean, yeah, I was on a lot of painkillers, but it really didn’t hurt all that much.”

“Oh my god, Harrington.” Billy’s close to shaking Steve and tearing his own hair out. “Give me my fucking keys before I literally destroy your face again.”

Steve frowns, studies Billy with a quick once over. Puts his hands on his hips.

“No.”

“What the fuck do you mean _no_? They’re _my_ keys, give them to me.”

“One, you’re still drunk. And two, _no_. Not happening, John Wayne. Well, not yet. _Later_. I’m not gonna steal your car or anything, I just don’t, you know, want you to drive into a tree.”

Billy says nothing. There’s only the battering ram inside his skull and Steve’s hard, unshakable stare that Billy’s too damn tired to figure out where he’s hiding the loophole. All his energy is focused on keeping himself from losing focus.

Steve’s the first to break their stand off.

He deflates, sighing. Rolls his eyes. _Again._

“ _Fine_. Whatever. You hungry? Breakfast first—lunch, actually. But, yeah. You should eat something. And drink some water, the usual hangover shit.” Steve says, then he’s turning around, walking away. Argument settled. Billy, zero. Steve, one. “Shoes off, though. Otherwise my mom’ll get upset and she’s gonna nag about it for _weeks_.”

Billy’s left to stand awkwardly by the front door with all his frustrations and panic and _need to leave_ left with nowhere to go. Every go-to threat he has goes sputters out of him. Steve’s shrugged him off with a smile. Doesn’t rip Billy a new asshole. Doesn’t even bring last night up.

Steve’s playing nice. Billy doesn’t know the rules for a game like that.

“I need a beer.” Billy tells him. Crouches then gets dizzy and falls on his ass. Struggles getting his boots off.

“Is that your catchphrase or something?” Steve mutters. Shakes his head. “Might try untying them first.”

“Well aren’t you all smart and shit and full of good fucking ideas. Fuck.” Billy flips him off.

“Thank you very much. Got that neat trick back in the first grade. Early bloomer and all.” Steve says. He keeps _smiling_ over his shoulder. It’s annoying. Grates on every nerve Billy has.

He throws his boot at Steve, hits him in the ass. Earns himself a yelped _jesus!_

It’s beyond fucked up how Billy would still be thrilled to die choking on this idiot’s dick.

 

—

 

“There’s cereal. Lots of cereal. There were poptarts, but Dustin ate literally the entire box, it was sorta gross. Like, amazing too, but I definitely gagged a little.” Steve says, opening cabinets then moves on to the fridge. “Oh my god, the sour pickles are freaking great, dip’m in some peanut butter and _holy delicious shit_ , dude—but, yeah, probably not what you’d be into right now, never mind.”

In the kitchen there are at least a dozen boxes of different cereal on the counter. All opened. Bowls and spoons stacked up next to the sink. It’s the kind of kitchen he’d see in a magazine or a movie. It’s _rich people_ nice. Billy wants to shred every cereal box, pull out every drawer, rip it all to pieces. Make a mess of the place. Get his sticky middleclass fingerprints all over.

Billy sits on a stool. Puts his head on his hand. The counter is cool and he spreads his palm against it. His leg jumps where it’s set on the leg of the stool, he tries to stop but then it just starts up again.

Tries to look bored and ends up only feeling annoyed.

Steve tosses Billy a bag of peas from the freezer with a _looks like it hurts_ and points to his own jaw, the spot where Billy had gotten his usual _hey, son_ from Neil.

The bag crinkles and a few peas crack from how tight his hold is. He sets it against his jaw, uses his left hand, the cold easing both aches. He keeps his mouth shut tight.

Steve fills up a glass of water, sets it in front of Billy along with a bottle of aspirin. The set up seems familiar.

“See anything you can stomach?” Steve says.

“Meat.” Billy bites out.

“Meat? Like, eggs? I have eggs?”

“Fine.”

Steve cracks four eggs into a pan. Sunny-side up. He talks about Henderson, about the other one, about the movies they watched and how _that cartoon really was super creepy, had those goblin things in my dreams, so weird_. He’s chatty and doesn’t seem to care when all Billy does is grunt and then—

—then he sees it. A big red mark on Steve’s neck, it’s there just under the collar of his shirt—it’s there and Billy put it there.

Steve slides the plate in front of him with a fork. Asks him if he wants salt and pepper or that orange stuff. The eggs are a little burnt on the edges. Steve’s leaning across the counter from him. He’s got that smile on his face. Like he’s waiting for Billy. Like Billy is someone to wait for. Like Steve actually _likes_ him. Like Billy didn’t shove himself at him. Like Billy didn’t gnaw at his neck.

Steve took care of him. Steve _is_ taking care of him.

_Steve’s an idiot._

Billy doesn’t move. Can’t let himself move. It comes over him fast, this heady upset that turns everything red and everyone into a target. Steam comes out of his ears. His hands are shaking. He doesn’t want Steve to smile at him. He wants Steve to take a swing. Jump over the counter and show Billy he knows how to punch without standing around and leaving himself wide open, winding up like he’s up to bat.

Pressure builds and builds inside him.

“Stop being nice.“

Steve _finally_ stops smiling. “What?”

“Stop being fucking _nice._ ”

Billy can’t handle _nice_ Steve, he wants the Steve who rolls his eyes at him and tells him to shut up and play and get the hell out of his face.

Steve is confused. Doesn’t _get it_.

“I don’t get it.” Billy says for him. The words grind out of him through a lump in his throat.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t.” Billy’s everything is crawling out his ears, clawing at his skull. “I don’t get _this_.”

“Lunch?”

Billy lets out a frustrated groan, holding his head between his hands and glaring at Steve.

“I don’t fucking get _this_ , Harrington. Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“Well, you’re hungover and it’s almost four and I thought ‘ _hey, he should probably eat something_ ’—“

“Stop being a dumbass for two— _fuck_.” Billy digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Exhales through his nose. Doesn’t breathe until it hurts too much not to. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You should’ve kicked me out.”

“You keep asking me that and, like, I don’t know how you aren’t getting it yet. Next time you’re bleeding out I’ll leave you alone and just—step over your dead body, that okay? That gonna make you happy?”

Billy can hear him breathing. There’s dirt under his feet and if he thinks hard enough he can feel the warmth from the shade of the quarry. Steve is curling towards him. He whines. Again and again in his head. On repeat. For weeks. He can’t sleep.

“I’m not— _pretending_ , okay?” The word rings loud inside Billy and he doesn’t know _why_. “We’re friends. Why do friends do anything?” Steve says, softly.

Everything stops.

The red flies out of him, leaves him empty to be filled with too many other things all at once. Billy blinks the bright spots out of his eyes, focuses on Steve.

“Friends?” Billy repeats, lost. _Friends_.

Steve can’t mean what he says. _No one_ means what they say. Not Steve. Not Neil. Billy never does. It’s always just bullshit.

But Steve’s _looking_ at him.

“Yeah, _friends._ ” Steve puts his chin in his hand and he’s leaning in, the counter feeling much smaller than it did two seconds ago. “Did you think I was joking when I gave you that snickerdoodle? A guy doesn’t just give another guy a cookie without them being friends.”

Billy swallows around the idea. Dips his toes in. “And that’s a _thing_.”

“It is when you’re in Hawkins.”

 

—

 

Billy Hargrove is friends with Steve Harrington, according to Steve. Friends eat breakfast together, also, according to Steve.

Billy pokes at his eggs. Slumped over and confused and completely wiped out. Fidgety. His leg is jumping again. His fingers feel too big. The house is quiet except for the two of them.

Billy glances up to look at Steve, he’s never felt this awkward in his entire life and it’s annoying and pointless and he hates that his hair is a rat’s nest right now, he absolutely fucking _hates_ it.

He manages to shovel in a couple bites before Steve opens a can of SpaghettiOs then carefully pours in some Mr. T cereal.

He stirs it together and eats a big spoonful.

“Why?” Is all Billy can say, horrified and green in the face. Shaken.

Steve shrugs. “Adds good mouth feel. Want some? It’s way better than you think it’ll be.”

Steve holds the can out to him and Billy shoves himself back and away from the counter, doesn’t even want to _touch_ it.

“Didn’t know you were such a baby, Hargrove. It’s just some cereal.”

Bill shakes his head, pushes his half eaten plate away and presses his forehead to the counter. Groans. “That’s literally garbage.”

“This is all tasty deliciousness. I don’t think you’re getting the importance of mouth feel.” Steve says. He takes another bite. Billy can hear the crunch. “Try it with some Count Chocula and be ready for your mind to be fucking _blown_.”

“If I don’t barf on you, will you shut up?”

“No?”

“ _God_.”

“Hey, I know.” Steve says with a mouthful _on purpose_. “You’re here. You got shorts on. I got some upstairs. I have a pool. There’s a sun for once—for like, at least another hour. _Let’s do this._ ”

“It’s _November_.”

“It’s a _heated_ pool.”

“ _In Indiana._ ”

“Like,” Steve gets another spoonful and waves it around as he talks, “I know I look like a god with how hot I am and, you know, my hair, but I can’t physically move the pool to the coast where it’s not Indiana. Thought you knew that.”

Billy covers his face with his hands. His headache skullfucks him. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing anymore. Steve’s thrown him off, the bitch.

“I gotta—I should go.” He says. Thinks about Neil finding his room empty. Max probably wanted to do something today and Billy wasn’t there to be made to play chaperone and devoted older brother.

 _Respect and responsibility._ Billy tried, but he’s rotting from the inside out and Neil knows it.

“Nah. Stay here.” Steve says, makes all the shit waiting for him back at the house sound easy and simple.

 

—

 

“Did you say _pickles and peanut butter?_ ”

“Oh, dude, _Hargrove_. Get ready for it.”

 

—

 

Steve tells him the pool’s heater’s been turned on for days. There’s steam coming off the surface and still Billy hesitates. He stands off to the side, eyeing the pool and the manicured lawn and the trimmed bushes and the tree he’d been standing under last night.

Everything screams _money_. A lot of it.

Between the massive house and the tree-line, there’s a spot where Billy can see the sky go from orange to purple. It’s cold outside. He can see his breath and he takes his socks off anyways.

Steve’s swapped his jeans for a pair of bright yellow swimming trunks with neon pink stripes on the sides, shorter than his gym shorts, flimsier too. Billy imagines what they’ll look like wet on _Steve_ and it’s a _thought_.

Steve plops himself down by the side of the pool, doesn’t hesitate to shove his bare feet in and start kicking, swishing the water around in tiny waves. He leans back on his elbows, pulls out a lighter and barely half a joint. He’s at home in the cold while Billy’s standing on his heels, toes already going tingly.

“Got some sticky fingers, Harrington.” Billy says.

“Sure do.” Steve says. Grins. Sticks the joint between his lips and flicks his lighter open and lights it on the first try.

Billy wishes he had some pockets to shove his hands into and show he’s just going along with this, he doesn’t _want_ to be here, hanging out with Steve, no matter what Steve may say and how _did you mean it?_ keeps circling around in his head.

It’s just him and Steve. Billy’s not going to throw himself at the guy, not again. He’s got his head on him now and enough sleep for most of what he took last night to be winding down.

There’s a line and Billy’s set on not crossing it.

Billy sits down next to him. Makes sure there’s enough space no accidental touching can happen. From him or Steve. He doesn’t dip his toe in first, just plunges both feet in like Steve did and the water is _warm_.

“What’s your favorite color?” Steve says, passes the joint.

“What?”

“ _What is your favorite color?_ ” Steve says slowly, every syllable its own word.

“Why the hell do you wanna know that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just your favorite color. That’s it. Mine’s green. See? Very easy. Barely had to think about it.”

“Yeah. Obviously. You picked _green._ Who picks green?” Billy takes a big enough drag that there’s only a handful of puffs left.

Steve’s cheeks and his nose are flushed, from the warmth or the cold. He’s pretty either way. He’s got this delicate face. Billy stares at him from the corner of his eye.

He thinks about saying _pink_ just to fuck with him, but can't even get that out. Pink equals queer and Steve already knows that, no need to underline it for him. He says nothing instead. Smokes the joint. Flexes his toes under the water. The cement is ice under his ass but the sun's out for once—just barely—and Billy got years of practice pretending for a few seconds that everything's good.

The silence ticks on and something inside Billy fusses, unnerved and wanting to move. To run. He’s not supposed to be here, he doesn’t _belong_ here.

“Pull my finger.” Steve says in a truly abysmal, awful, _straight out of the dumpster and a rainy, mud-drenched night, and wonderful for it_ Brando.

Billy stares at Steve. At his finger pointed right at him.

He’s lost it. One of them or maybe both of them. They’ve cracked each other’s heads wide open.

“Are you seriously dropping Brando? Now? _To me?_ ” Billy says.

“You’re being so serious, like, over a question a five year old gets asked _daily_ , so. _Pull my finger_. It’ll be _hilarious_.”

Billy’s not budging. “Yeah. I’m not ten.”

“Whatever. Probably some boring, _look how cool I am_ color anyways, like _blue_. Ugh.” Steve says. Gives him a sly look. “Okay, ask me what I’m rebelling against. You’re gonna be _begging_ for my autograph and calling me Johnny Strabler.”

Billy’s lost it for sure. His mind goes blank and the pain in his hand dulls, his head’s on a cloud. He tries to fight it and _fails_ —he ends up smiling and laughter bubbles up, breathy and addictive and _light_ , flowing out of him in a steady stream of ridiculousness.

Of course Steve Harrington would pick Marlon Brando. Of course he’d pick the _Wild One_. Who else but Steve would be this hung up on old Brando flicks.

He shakes his head. “You trading in your Schwinn for a thunderbird?”

Brando impression out, lips pursed, Steve says, “didn’t you hear? I’m an outlaw biker. I gotta have my wheels.”

“Should’ve put on a leather jacket and _maybe_ this mess would be passable.”

“Uh huh. Just admit it, it’s the perfect Brando and you’re jealous.”

“Yep. Real jealous. Hit it in one.”

Steve pokes his shoulder.

“So. Come on, you’re gonna laugh.” Steve nudges closer, pokes Billy’s arm again and Billy just keeps staring, dumb, stupid, so damn stupid and he can feel his cheeks hurting from _smiling_

“That’s not happening.” Billy flicks Steve’s finger away from him.

“Fine. Super lame, but fine and, you know, _I wouldn’t waste my time with a square like you anyways, what do I wanna knock myself out for?_ ” Steve waits for Billy’s reaction with raised eyebrows and expectations Billy wants to meet and refuses to all in one hot second, so he settles on rolling his eyes.

“Fine fine. I get it. You just aren’t capable of appreciating true art.” Steve says.

“I’ll appreciate it when I see it and I don’t see jack right now.” Billy curls his lip. “All I see is a weirdo doing the world’s worst Brando.”

“The world’s _best_ , maybe. And what do you mean? Me?” Steve brings a hand to his chest. “I’m the weirdo nerd? Hargrove, know what I figured out last night?” Billy freezes. “Headbangers are just nerds who know how to dress.”

The relief is so immediate and overpowering, Billy’s gut gets punched and he laughs. “The fuck?”

“It’s true! Blasting your—your choo-choo Metallica and your fuckin’ Zepplin hobbits shit and—you know how I know any of that—? Fucking, Smeagol.”

“Is that supposed to be Hawkins’ attempt at Mexican food?”

“Play dumb if you want, but I know who Smeagol is _now_. I’ve never even heard of the—the _Lord of the Rings_ and you know _why_ I know what _that_ is? Because for twenty solid minutes last night, you and Dustin wouldn’t shut up about hobbits and white wizards and fucking goblins and tinker bells and shit.” Steve says. “So _you_ , Billy ‘ _checks out the same book from the library three times and has a higher GPA than The Nancy Wheeler and has a weird thing for lions_ ’ are a huge, gigantic, nerd.”

Steve’s smug and proud and Billy’s left to sit there, struck dumb, joint limp on his lip and he’s spitting it out into the pool and Billy’s clutching at his stomach, laughing so hard he’s getting tears in his eyes and he really honestly—the most honest he’s ever been in his entire life—he might just fall straight into the pool. His hair is gonna be fucked and impossible to save at this rate. Chlorine will be the last straw.

Steve’s grinning at him when he manages to breathe again and pry his eyes back open.

“Chtulhu.” Billy struggles to get out. “Not fucking choo-choo, oh my god. It’s not Thomas the fucking Tank Engine, Harrington.”

Steve turns red and it’s definitely not from the cold outside.

Billy keeps laughing in starts. He glances over at Steve, hears him say _choo-choo_ in his head and snorts, chokes on his own spit and he’s right back where he started.

“Fuck you too.” Steve shoves at his shoulder. “Okay. I get it. Jesus, it’s not my fault I stopped listening after, like, the first half hour of that shit. You guys would not quit it with the lions and weird little hairy dudes—god, that cartoon is the fucking worst, I don’t get how anyone could watch that sober and, like, _enjoy_ it.”

“It _is_ creepy as shit.” Billy says, a chuckle trailing afterwards.

“You know what else I don’t get, I dont know why you and Dustin dont get along, you’re like the same person.”

“Who’s Dustin?”

“Oh so funny, Hargrove. _Hi—larious_. And you’re totally the bigger asshole. By, like,” Steve pinches his fingers together, leaving an inch of space between.

Billy just laughs.

 

—

 

Steve’s flicking his lighter open and closed. Again and Again. Billy’s on edge. He wants Steve to just spit it out and he _hopes_ he keeps his mouth shut just as bad.

They’re legs sway together in the water. Steve’s toes are long and slender. Up close, Billy can see his dark leg hair. The bones in his knees. Where his tan-line ends, all the way up, up his thigh under where his shorts have ridden up.

Billy’s seen it all in the locker room, it’s just _different_ when it’s the two of them.

Billy picks at his bandage, feeling a little better, a little looser. He wants Steve to touch him. He wants to touch Steve.

He won’t. He still has his head.

Steve says, “thanks for helping us out last week.”

“Whatever.”

“And for unlocking my car.”

“Okay, I get it. I’m amazing. Shut up.” Billy says, shrivels up, goes stiff, shrugs it off.

“Slow down, no one— _no one_ —said _amazing_ , but, still. Just, _thanks_. I should’ve said that back then, but I was still, you know, pissed at you and hoping you’d fall on your face and, like, die or something.” Steve hunches over. Kicks his feet in the water. “So, you gave Max your jacket.”

“Fucking wasted on her short ass.” Billy mutters.

The switch is quick. Nervous to pissed in a blink.

Max ticks him off like no one else. Max who gets to strong arm him for _his_ leather jacket and gets to have a _boyfriend_ and gets to go on _dates_ in public and gets to have a _mom_ who loves her and gets to have a _dad_ who's not the Neil Billy gets.

Little Bitch Maxine who gets _everything_.

Billy can feel his hold on his head loosening. He’s spiraling. The way to the bottom is familiar. It’s like his camaro, but it’s not home, it’s just where all the shit gets piled up.

He breathes heavy out his nose. Closes his eyes. Digs his fingers into the cement. He thinks of the pink coloring Steve’s nose. Of green. Of the blue of the camaro.

He _hates_ her.

The cut on his hand spikes rubbing against the concrete. The bandage makes it itch.

“ _And_ you said sorry to Lucas.” Steve says.

Billy huffs. “You got a point you’re trying to make?”

“I just think it’s good, you know? What you did.” Steve says.

“ _Whatever_.”

“Not _whatever_. Seriously, it’s _good_ what you did for her and Lucas. It is, man.” Steve lowers his voice dramatically. “The planets aligned and Billy Hargrove did the right thing, oo-ooh. Spooky.” Steve wiggles his fingers.

“Jesus, how are you this big of a dork?”

“Nah. I’m a jock.“ Billy snorts— _yeah right, prep is a prep is a prep._  Steve says, “yeah, yeah. You're too cool and everything you do is awesome. Got it. Dipshit."

Billy grins. _This_ is what he can handle. “Fuckwad."

"Shit gobbler."

"Cunt fried rice."

"Jizzburger helper."

"Carnitas with a side of fuck you."

"Turkey tickler on rye with extra motherfucker mayo."

 _Friends_. It’s an interesting idea. The word echoes in his head again and again. It shows up in his smile. In Steve’s.

Maybe this is something he can have.

Billy pats Steve on the back—a quick hard pat even Neil wouldn't manage to find any faults with—then shoves, pushing him face first into the pool. Arms flailing in the air after him, the water cutting off his _what the fuck?!_.

 

—

 

There hasn’t been many times—not even a handful—he’s laughed this much. Had any fun that wasn’t drinking or getting into a fight. Whatever fun he has managed to have somehow always involved Steve.

Once his head pops out of the water, sputtering and pissy and with a bitchy glare that sends Billy overboard laughing, Steve says, “I’m gonna kill you.”

“In what world do I _not_ push you into the pool, pretty boy?”

“I guess the same one where I _don’t_ do this.” Steve says then both his hands are gripping Billy by his ankles and Billy’s being tugged into the water. He goes with less flailing and a little more dignity—keeping whatever he has left—not ever, ever about to give Steve the satisfaction if he can help it.

The water is so _warm_ and the last thing he hears before his ears are submerged along with everything else is Steve’s happy _gotcha_.

He sinks to the bottom of the pool and opens his eyes.

The last time he’d done this he was still in San Diego and still had half a hope Neil wasn’t about to marry that sad sack of a woman and Billy wouldn’t have a troll as a little sister.

Billy exhales, watches the bubbles fly up to the surface. Likes the muffled sound of being underwater. Likes the sensation of floating. Likes the heated pool _a lot_.

 _This is where I’m supposed to be,_ he thinks, _a rock at the bottom of the sea._

Steve’s body is in blue. He can see perfectly well what his shorts look like wet. It’s a _sight_.

He’s being tugged up. A strong grip to his upper arm. Then he’s shoved to the side of the pool, Steve moving his hand up and onto the icy concrete.

Steve’s hair is plastered to his head. _Sweet_. Big, big brown eyes and plump lips that look like roses.

“You got some kind of death wish, Hargrove? You were under there for like five minutes.”

Billy realizes he should be panting. That it’s weird he isn’t. He labors his breath, grinning.

“Nah, just can’t swim is all.” Billy says.

The panic on Steve’s face is worth it.

“Oh my god—shit. Fuck. I’m sorry, man—“ Steve says, quick to apologize, even to _him_. It’s amazing, really. The moron. Billy hides his face in his arm, starts to snicker into his elbow. “You’re fucking with me.”

“ _No._ ”

Steve splashes him and Billy _laughs_.

“I’m starving. Want pizza? You do, I’m getting pizza.” Steve tells him. There’s no room to argue or make a quick exit.

Billy goes with the flow. It’s easier that way.

 

—

 

The air is freezing when they’re out of the pool. They both run to the back door, teeth chattering and feet barely touching the ground.

Billy curses _you absolute bitch_ at Steve for fumbling with the handle while his balls shrivel up back inside him.

Steve tells him to go shower— _you can use mine_ —and throws him a towel from a closet. Hits Billy in the face with it, a solid _wack_.

Steve’s pulling his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor of the kitchen without a care, giving Billy a view of his pale broad back. Slim waist. The freckles all over. The mark Billy left on him stands out, angry and foreign to the rest of him. It doesn’t fit.

But Steve doesn’t try to cover himself. He’s comfortable. Shoulders still shaking from laughter. His back is to Billy. Comfortable in his home. Trusting when he shouldn’t be.

Billy reminds himself—they’re _friends_ now. Friends take their shirts off around each other and don’t stare or start counting how many dots their friends have all over their body. They don’t get hard in thin wet gym shorts.

It’s like the first time he saw the Calvin Klein ad. The white briefs on a handsome man’s body. All those muscles Billy wanted to touch just as badly as he wanted to have.

Billy spent weeks thinking if he looked close enough the man would peel his underwear off and give Billy a welcoming smile. Seeing Steve like this wakes something up inside Billy knew damn well was there already, but now it lights him up instead of drowning him.

Billy looks around the kitchen again, towel limp in his hand and forgotten.

He throws the towel over his head. It’s blue and fluffy and _soft_ and smells like the clothes in Steve’s closet and it makes Billy cover his head with the towel and bury his entire face in all that fluff, sniffing with big inhales that fill his lungs whole.

He’s gone crazy. He should leave. The longer he stays the worse it’s gonna be. Billy will say something and Steve—

He shakes his head at the thought. Wipes chlorine water out of his eyes, feeling his throat tighten he focuses on anything else. The chill of the tile floor. The sound of the heater kicking on. Wiggles his toes to get feeling in them again. Works up some outrage over what the chlorine must be doing to his already frizzy hair. Plucks at the sweater sticking to him like soggy chainmail.

Now that the sweater’s wet it weighs a thousand more pounds than it did dry, Billy strips it off and considers where to put it—really does, actually gives a genuine shit and he doesn’t do that, but it’s _Steve’s_ and Steve is, apparently, _his friend_ , so he tosses it over a stool. There are tiles. It can dry like that and not ruin anything. Steve can’t be pissed at him for it. Plenty of other reasons to be mad at him, not this one though.

Billy rubs at his temples. Spots the aspirin on the counter. Pops it open and swallows three of them dry.

He’s overthinking it.

 

—

 

Steve’s a dramatic dumbass.

“You’re a fuckin’ drama queen.” Billy says, showing Steve the cut on his hand. Soaked through bandages dumped in the trash under the sink. It feels so much better without the gauze rubbing it.

“Excuse me for caring.” Steve bites back.

Billy doesn’t have the mental energy to process that one other than to just _die_.

Mutters, “you’re a fuckin’ dork.”

Steve still _winces_. “Isn’t that, like, bone?”

“What?”

“Right there? Next to the— _that._ The white _thing_.”

They both lean in and Billy’s not really looking at his hand so much as he’s watching Steve go from _this is so gross_ to _see I’m right, bone!_

“That’s skin.”

“No it’s not, it’s _bone._ ”

“If it’s bone, I dare ya to poke it.”

“Why should I poke it, you poke it. It’s your bone.”

Billy shoves his hand—the cut—closer to Steve. Steve splutters, jumping back.

“Come on, smart guy, poke it and tell me it’s bone.”

“No. _No._ Get away from me. I don’t care.”

But Steve comes running once Billy asks where he keeps the superglue. He’s helpful like that. Watches, curious and standing all too close, as Billy glues his split skin together.

“Where’d you learn that?” Steve says.

The Hargrove household never had a first-aid kit till they bunked up with the Mayfields.

“A skateboarding trick.” Billy tells him.

 

—

 

Steve digs Billy’s clothes out of the _laundry room_. The shirt’s wrinkled, but there aren’t any blood stains anywhere in sight.

 _Thank god for Claudia_ , Steve tells him. Billy has no idea who _Claudia_ is. He pictures a pretty blonde and hates her.

Billy showers. He uses Steve’s shampoo and half of what’s left of his conditioner. Sniffs at the soap—mint.

He feels like he’s in a dream. The hot water soothing his head as the medicine kicks in, running down his back. Enveloped in steam and hot water turned to the max.

He closes his eyes. The sensation of slender pale toes under his catches him off guard. Steve’s breath is on his cheek. He’s unbuttoning Billy’s shirt then his jeans. Big hands being _gentle_ with him. Kind when he shouldn’t have been.

Billy remembers swaying and Steve swaying with him.

Billy groans, mortified and humiliated. Hands grasping uselessly at the tiled wall, head hanging low between his shoulders, the water rushes over his ears. The memory steamrolls him, leaves him flat on his ass and achingly hard.

It’s awkward using his right hand, but he makes it work. Touches himself, strokes himself slow, like how Steve had touched him last night. Gentle. Kind. Teases himself with light touches, thinks of Steve at the quarry, dick in hand, jacking himself fast next to Billy, his ears sticking out under wet hair that curls around his neck, his big, gorgeous eyes lit up with anger—

Billy comes biting his lip, tears in his eyes, splattering the tile wall with thick ropes of his spunk.

His knees nearly buckle, but he hangs on and keeps himself upright. Braces himself on the wall.

He’s panting for real this time.

 

—

 

Billy has a head full of Farrah Fawcett that have his curls looking sharp and fluffy. A spray of Steve’s cologne. He’s finally feeling good about how he looks. He needed the boost.

He takes his time coming downstairs, lingers in Steve’s room now that he has a chance to really _look_ without the panic of getting caught. He sits on Steve’s bed. Touches his pillow. His sheets. Looks through his music—not as bad as he thought it’d be.

It’s a nice room. Big. Clean, mostly. The blood stains on the carpet don’t bother him as much, now. He feels more like himself.

Billy’s at the top of the stairs. Steve’s at the phone by the door, he’s showered and changed his clothes. His hair styled perfectly, slicked back with a few strands hanging down. His cheeks are still flushed from the hot water.

He’s standing _weird_ , though. Tense. He’s a tall line of anxiety.

Billy hangs back and watches Steve rewind the answering machine.

He hits play with a loud _click_.

_Hey, Steve. It’s—Nancy. Wheeler. You already know that, oh god. Um. I haven’t seen you around much and I just—I wanted—you know, to. Well. I hope you’re doing okay? I really do. I’ll call again later or—or not. And maybe—I really, really hope you’re okay, Steve and, like, maybe we can talk? Sometime? If that’s okay? See you on Monday. Or not. But, maybe?_

Steve’s hand’s shaking. He’s got this _soft_ look on his face that spells out _hurting_.

“Um.” Steve says, spotting him.

The answering machine keeps going and plays the next message.

_Hey Steve, it’s your main man, Dustin. So. Um. Well? There’s been a lil sitch down at the arcade—not you-know-what related, still a pretty big sitch though and if you could, like, come down here? That’d be, like, super good. Kay? Thanks. It’s Dustin, by the way. Henderson._

Steve’s acting caught and there are a lot of ways to react to that, break it down, and find out what he’s doing with such a dumb look and why he’s giving it to Billy—

_Steve. It’s Dustin. The only Dustin you know—I think. Anyways, if you could, like, get down to the arcade? Soon-ish? That’d be super duper rad of you._

—Billy knows that, gets it— _he gets it_ —and he acknowledges his options, but when it comes to what Steve brings out in him all he wants to do is punch or fuck or runaway and punching’s becoming less of his go-to and more like a real, live, _actual_ regret.

_Dude, my dude, Steve. Come to the arcade? Please? Like, I’m not saying the cops are gonna be called if you don’t get your ass over here, like, now? But, they are if you don’t. So. It’s Dustin. Your lil bud. We’re in the—the backroom. So. Yeah. Thanks?_

The truth is a straight guy can jack off next to you, but it doesn’t mean he’s gonna hold your hand afterwards.

Not like Billy wants him to. Hawkins is in his rearview mirror after all.

_Steve, I completely regret calling myself your ‘lil bud,’ like, ignore that one? Pretend it didn’t happen. It was way lame and I just didn’t think at all—_

Steve stops the answering machine, hair hiding his face.

Casual is the way to go. Wheeler’s off limits—Billy’s not going to even touch that. Would rather pretend he didn’t hear that one and that Steve didn’t look heartbroken. It just pisses him off.

Billy stops on the last step, giving himself a couple of inches on Steve.

“You gonna go play hero?”

Steve’s relief is obvious. He unwinds, the tension slides right off him and Billy should be happy Steve can even do that with him around. Instead it makes him want to grab Wheeler and shake her.

“No.” Steve says. He pulls out Billy’s car keys from his pocket, jingles them in front of him. “ _We_ are gonna go play hero.”

“Proud of that one, Strabler?”

Steve’s eyes disappear in the back of his head and it may be the lighting of the sunset filtering through the windows, but Steve’s pouting and his ears have gone bright red.

 

—

 

The camaro’s a block away. As soon as he sees it his steps are lighter and he _might_ be running. If Steve wasn’t here Billy might’ve actually hugged her.

Steve fishes through the cardboard box of cassettes Billy keeps under the car seat, trying to find something to listen to, muttering the names of bands under his breath. Doesn’t ask, just does it. Billy’s not about to start bitching when Steve’s got more than enough ammo to take him out.

Billy digs out his smokes and sucks on a cigarette, about to inhale the entire stick with how hard he’s blowing this fucker.

The cassettes clash together, Steve’s practically jumping, holding a tape up and waving it in Billy’s face.

“Mother _fucker_.” Steve says, excited. He shoves it into the deck and fast forwards. Billy knows it’s Heart by the second chord. “This—this is _it_. The one you were playing last night.” Steve closes his eyes, sings along with the Wilson sisters, “ _Wake me up with laughter. Wrap me in your arms. This ain't no morning after_.”

His voice—Billy’s breath hitches and then he’s not breathing at all.

Steve grins, proud of himself _and he should be_. He sounds _good_. It’s the fucking worst. Billy’s head is spinning, he doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to drive knowing Steve Harrington has some pipes on him.

Steve’s grin falters, though, the longer Billy doesn’t say anything—he just can’t get his mouth to _work_ or his brain to _think_.

Steve rubs at the back of his neck, sinking into the car seat, knees pressing against the dashboard.

“Okay, so, I’m not the best singer or whatever and _technically_ I had to ask Will what the song was, but I remembered the lyrics on my own and—and you don’t remember any of this, do you?” Steve wipes a hand down his face. “This is—yikes. Never mind.”

Billy chews at his lip. Flips the visor down. Slips his aviators on. Sorts through the thoughts in his head, trying to find at least one a pansy wouldn’t say.

He turns the volume dial up. Lets Nancy Wilson come for his throat then calls Steve a _nerd_.

 

—

 

There are certain things Billy’s not about to _do_ —Hawkins or San Diego—he’s not stepping foot inside an arcade, especially not The Palace. He doesn’t care about what happened with Henderson and Byers. They’re not his problem.

He parks and kicks back his seat on instinct, getting ready for a nap, but Steve’s telling him to _come on_ and getting out of the car and Billy guesses this is what friends do, play back up.

The arcade stinks. It’s the same smell of the locker room at school, but with carpeting to absorb it all and let it grow into an even worse _stink_.

As soon as Steve pushes through the door, Billy following behind him, everyone goes quiet, everyone stares. This is why Billy kept his aviators on.

“Well,” Steve says looking around at all the face looking at them, “this can’t be good.”

“No, this seems totally normal.” Billy says.

There are spots of blood on the carpet, a trail of them going back out the door, into the parking lot. He’d missed it coming in.

He wishes he stayed inside the camaro. He didn’t _have_ to come in. It’s warm enough if he keeps the heater running.

It’s the way Steve had been expecting him to follow, like they’re in this together. Billy shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

Steve makes a straight line for the backroom and slowly people stop staring and the noise starts up again till it’s _loud_ and his head’s back to being pinched.

The door’s locked. Steve bangs on it. Mutters about some guy named _Keith_. Billy catches a couple whispers about a fight. He glares over his shoulder at a kid with glasses talking to some chunky nerd—they both jump and shut their traps.

The door opens a crack. Billy catches sight of Henderson’s mop of curls before it’s being slammed shut.

“Excuse me?” Steve says to the closed door. Hands in the air. Not believing what just happened. _Offended_. “Did he just close the door in my face?”

“Seems that way.” Billy says.

“The fuck?”

“Yep.”

“I mean— _the fuck?_ Right?”

Billy claps him on the back. “You raised’m real swell, Harrington. Real gentlemen you got there.”

“Dustin, I swear—I’m gonna feed you to Zaborowski’s dogs if you don’t open this door, you little shithead—“ Steve grips the knob with both hands, shoves his shoulder into the door and pushes.

The door opens enough for Steve to jam his foot inside and throw it wide open.

It takes only a second to figure out what must have gone down. The Byers kid’s cradling his hand to his chest, has blood smeared under his nose, and Henderson’s panicked.

Steve gets inside and then the door’s being slammed shut in front of Billy and, like, Billy’s not about to even try to pry the door open. He doesn’t actually _care_ , but he also doesn’t like having doors shut in his face. At all.

Billy stares at the chipped paint. _I didn’t even want to do this anyways._

Then Steve’s poking his head out.

“Uh, he doesn’t—mind hanging back?” Steve winces.

“Oh my god.” Billy says, turns on his heel.

What had been the _point_ of coming inside? The stink of all these nerds was making him nauseous anyways.

Steve grabs his shoulder, stops him.

“Don’t leave, okay? Just—hold on for like a sec. A really quick sec, yeah?”

Steve doesn’t think when he touches him. Doesn’t run through a million possibilities, how it can all turn ugly if he does something just _off_ enough. _He doesn’t think._

Billy shrugs, gets out of his hold. Says _whatever_. His feet already planting themselves in the stained carpet.

A kid bumps into him and leaves something _sticky and mysterious_ on his sleeve. He wants to die.

 

—

 

“Hey, Billy.” Some guy says.

Billy eyes him up and down. Dopey. Dumb face. About seven feet taller than everyone else in here—he’s big. Bigger than Billy. Right hand orange from the Cheetos bag he’s got it buried in.

Billy frowns, crosses his arms, juts out his chin. He’s already in a pissy mood and if this guy wants a fight, Billy’s all for it. Besides, bigger doesn’t mean shit in a fight if you know what you’re doing.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The guy isn’t fazed at all. Just eats a Cheeto and smacks his lips loud enough Billy can hear him chewing over the consoles.

“We sit next to each other in AP English? Mrs. Cobb’s class?” The guy says. He makes Billy itch to slam a fist in his face to get him to stop talking to him. “Keith? We were literally partners on a project last week.”

“Huh.” Billy says, taken-aback. Looks at the guy again.

 _Whatever_.

“Are you and Steve Harrington friends? I thought you guys hated each other?” Keith says and licks at his thumb—his tongue is _orange_ —and a chill runs up Billy’s back. He rubs at his mouth then his sore eyes and there’s just no way he can maneuver his face into feeling better. He’s sure he’s gone green along with his stomach.

“God no.” Billy chokes out.

If only Hawkins wasn’t a tiny, _everyone’s up each other’s ass_ town, by Monday people are gonna be thinking he and Steve made up and are best buddies and _why_ that’s a bad thing making his stomach twist up in a different way—

He changes the topic. “You work here?”

Another lip lick. _Je—sus._ “Yep.”

“That must be—“ He doesn’t care. He chucks that load of bull too. “What the fuck happened anyways?” Billy nods to the backroom.

Keith chews on it. Billy starts to sort of remember him now—he’s got this dumb way of rolling an idea round in his head, scrunching and twisting his lips till they’re on the side of his face.

Billy had probably just shoved him into the _boring yokel_ box where most of the people in Hawkins fall into and where Keith definitely fits right in.

“Undead Byers whammied the hell out of some kid. Popped him right in the nose. It was pretty funny. Like, there’s blood on the carpet and they kind of shanghaied the backroom, but Steve’s gonna put in a good word for me with Tiffany Mazzanti because they were a _thing_ at summer camp and I know they’re still friends, so I’ll give’m a pass.”

If only Billy could go an hour without hearing about Steve’s exes. Steve must have dated every chick in this town.

“And, like,“ Keith just keeps _going_ , “I’ve known that kid since he was, like, a foot tall. Watching him swing his arms around like Pac-Man going after a ghost was some prime comedy, man.”

“Undead Byers, huh?” Billy says, ignoring most of that on purpose. The nickname’s a new one.

“Never really imagined you as the type to be part of the party, though.”

 _Party_ means nothing to him. He only vaguely knows what that means from having to listen to Max and Lucas talk and talk _and talk_.

“What the hell you imagining me for?”

“I mean, I got hobbies.” Keith shrugs, easy-peasy and not caring that Billy’s pretty generous when it comes to taking a swing. “You’re more like the _steal my girlfriend and split town, breaking hearts for every mile you drive_ type. You know?” Keith has the nerve to pause like Billy _does know_ and understands where he’s coming from. “The bad boy archetype.”

His eye twitches. _God._ “You ever even kiss a chick, big guy?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Keith _lies_ , “and, like, I heard Tiffany is easy, so.”

“ _So_. Right.” Billy sucks at this teeth. Clicks his tongue. Doesn’t give a shit about Steve’s millionth ex. “You wanna take a sec to rethink the shit you just said to my face?”

“No?”

“I don’t even remember you and you think you _know_ me?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I nailed it.” Keith says it. Just says it. With his flapping, stupid mouth. Honest and wide eyed. Not taking a piss.

Just. _Says it._

Billy gets in close, gets in this cheese powdered face and fights his own cringe off—getting his point across is more important

“Be as tall as you want, amigo, I will shove your ugly mug up that flat ass.”

“Bad boy archetype.” Keith nods and he’s _proud_ of himself and something must have gone wrong with him staying over at Steve’s for Billy to get _that_ reaction.

“Jesus goddamn christ— _fuck_.” Billy says, puts some feet between them, a kid shrieks to his left. His hands land on his hips and he has a flashback to _Steve_ from last night and twenty times before then. Stands there and just studies this giant too stupid and tall to see what he’s stepping in. “You got a smoke, Keith?”

“No smoking in here.” Keith points to a sign over his shoulder—NO SMOKING. “And I don’t smoke.”

Billy stares at him. Blank. Can’t get his mind to kickstart. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Cancer runs in my family, so I’m more susceptible to it—“

Billy holds his hand up. “—No. I can’t do this. I don’t care. Today’s been garbage. Yesterday’s been a goddamn shitfire. I’m out. See ya Monday, Keith. Keep it chill and don’t ever think about me again and—what-the-fuck-ever, bud.”

Keith yells out a cheery, _bye, Billy_ and Billy waves over his shoulder, blames being _nice_ on the shitty beer he drank and Steve because _everything_ is Steve’s fault anyways.

 

—

 

There’s barely any sun out when Billy shoves the door open, stomping out of the arcade and for the first time appreciating the fresh air of Hawkins over the stench inside. Everything is in shadow. The street lights have turned on. Billy’s eyes land on the camaro on instinct. Still there. Leaving still an option.

Then he spots two kids. _The_ two kids, Billy takes a _wild_ guess. One’s got a bloody nose and blood stains all down the front of his shirt—but what really clicks him in on what must have gone down is that absolute _hate_ in the kid’s eyes that are locked on the entrance of The Palace. Next to him is a big kid with a mean look to him that screams _junior high bully_.

Billy takes a moment to light up. Inhale. Blow the smoke out his nose.Thinks, _good for you, kid_ at Byers. Knows there’s probably more to the story than Byers just swinging his arms on the off chance of landing a hit. The little guy isn’t a match for either of these two, not with that innocent face, but he took a shot and fought back. Billy’s envious of that.

He decides on just how nice he’s going to be tonight and weighs it against _Keith_.

Billy walks over to the rag-tag bullies. They’re not really hiding, standing under the street lamp. They want to be seen. Waiting Henderson and Byers out. Neither of them seem to notice they’ve been noticed till he’s blocking their view of the arcade’s entrance.

On instinct they glare up at him before they realize _who_ he is then the panic kicks in. Shits know about other shits and Billy’s managed to build a name for himself in this dinky town. Not a good one, but it’s enough to scare off the morons and that makes it _perfect_.

“Names?” Billy says.

The big one gulps. The other one manages to meet Billy’s eyes. He’s a spunky little asshole, Billy gives him that. He wants to smash his heel into his face.

“Why?” Little Asshole’s voice cracks.

Billy shrugs. “Just wanna know who’s ass I’m kicking. It’s called having manners. Etiquette shit. Don’t your parents teach you anything in this place?”

The big one’s starting to shake. Little Asshole’s still got enough nerve to glare at him.

“We didn’t do anything to you.“

“Hey, I don’t judge.” Billy cracks his knuckles. “Kid like that? Zombie Boy, right? Undead Byers? Fuck, can’t blame ya.”

“He’s the one who started it!” The big one blurts out.

“Nah.” Billy shakes his head. “I’m not stupid and I’m not above beating the shit out of kids, so. You know.” He drawls, points with his cigarette at each of their poser faces. Hopes they put up a bit of a fight. “Skedaddle before I abort both of ya so hard your momma’s are gonna be walkin’ funny for a week.”

The two of them run away fast enough to kick up dust.

 

—

 

Billy picks a spot outside The Palace’s front window to lean and finish his smoke. Puts it out with the heel of his boot on the concrete. Thoughts far away and always circling back to Steve’s heated pool and the way Steve’s yellow swim trunks stuck to his thighs.

When Steve finally comes out of the arcade, his hair’s been tugged in all directions—something he does when he’s frustrated.

It’s a cute look. Billy scuffs his shoe on the cement, sticks his hands in his pockets. _Annoying_.

Steve whips his head around when he spots him, does a double take.

“You’re here—I,” Steve says.

“What?”

“Just. You didn’t leave.”

Steve’s soft. His eyes. His voice. His not-quite-a-smile. _He’s a soft kind of guy._

Billy shrugs it all off, face going hot.

 

—

 

Henderson and Byers slink out after Steve gives them _the signal_ —banging his fist on the window where Henderson’s peering out under a poster.

Henderson’s eyeballing Billy. He’s got it out for him. Still, Billy can hate the kid and imagine shoving the kid’s head down a toilet every other second on a loop if it keeps him sane.

“Why’d you have to bring _him?_ ” Henderson says. Billy’s head starts to _hurt_.

“Why’d you have to promise I’d get _Keith_ a date?” Steve shoots back before Billy can glare at the kid. “Do you even _know_ who Tiffany Mazzanti is, Dustin?”

Henderson flaps his hands. “I didn’t have any other choice, he was gonna call the cops!”

“You’re literally— _literally_ —friends with the chief of the fucking police.”

“That’s like saying I’m _friends_ with Will’s mom—and, like, Will, your mom’s cool and all, I’m not saying she’s not—“ Henderson blusters, “—I’d totally be friends with her if, like, that was a thing kids and moms did, but it’s not and— _you know what I meant, Steve._ God.”

“Sorry.” Byers mutters. Round shouldered, dragging his feet, lousy to his sneakers after his fight, especially for one he _won_. Billy can’t imagine this limp wristed kid had ever thrown a punch before that actually hit its mark.

“It’s okay, man.” Steve tells him. Ruffles his hair too. “The kid deserved it, I’m guessing.”

“Troy.” Henderson says, face scrunched up. “And _James_. They’re the worst. Well, _almost_ the worst.”

Henderson gives him the stink eye and there’s only so much shit this kid’s allowed to give him.

“Don’t pussy out, you got something to say, say it.” Billy says, crossing his arms.

Henderson’s shoulders reach his ears. “This is all your fault.”

Steve sags. “Dustin, I’m beggin’ ya, man.”

“If you didn’t hate Lord of the Rings— _like some insane person_ —me and Will wouldn’t have had to go all the way back to my house to get the books so I can shove how good it is in your dumb face.”

Lame. So lame. Max has really outdone herself. Billy laughs. “Okay? So?”

“ _So?_ ” Henderson’s ruffled. “If we didn’t have to do _that_ , Troy wouldn’t have seen us and Will wouldn’t have _punched him_ and we wouldn’t have had to barricade ourself in the arcade—“

“It’s, like, definitely my fault, Dustin—“ Byers starts to say, but Henderson interrupts him.

“Nothing is your fault, like, ever, okay?” Henderson says. “Everything is Billy’s fault. Those are the facts of life.”

“Ew.” Billy tells him.

“You gotta at least sing it if you’re gonna throw it in there, dude.” Steve says.

Henderson swings his backpack around his chest and pulls out a worn paperback. He waves it at Billy. He’s almost embarrassed for the kid.

“Please don’t do this.” Steve pinches his nose.

Henderson shakes his head. “Nope. I almost got knifed so I’m gonna _prove_ to this wrong, dingleberry of a poser that _The Lord of the Rings_ by J.R.R. Tolkien is the best fantasy—no— _series_ of all time.”

They all turn to look at Billy and it hits him then they’re expecting a certain reaction from him. Probably for him to either get pissed or drive his fist into the kid’s face.

Billy’s never had to punch anyone over something so _dumb_ before and he’s not exactly thrilled at the idea of it being _this_ annoying squirt.

“I don’t _hate_ Tolkien. Or Lord of the Rings. Led Zeppelin’s all about that shit.” Billy says. Admitting it out loud takes effort, but at everyone’s confused face—especially Henderson’s, he’s starting to get a kick out of this.

His memories are still a little fuzzy, but he knows he’d riled the kid up something awful.

Henderson gapes at him. “But you said—you _said_ you did.”

“Yep.”

“So you were just _lying_? What is wrong with you? Who lies about that?”

“Fucking with you isn’t lying, it’s just fucking with you.”

Henderson twitches. Deflates. “But.”

He might have broken the kid. He deserves it though.

Steve pats Henderson on the shoulder.

“It all worked out in the end, he agrees with you. So, there’s that?”

“ _No_.” Billy tells him. “It’s a good series, yeah, whatever. I still like Narnia more.”

This snot-nosed kid can’t imagine how much Billy needed there to be a door he could just open and escape to a world that’d shove him on a throne where a lion would protect him.

“Steve, my man, why are you doing this to me?” Henderson whines.

“Because you’re a little shit.”

“Oh.”

Steve claps his hands.

“Okay, so, I said we’re getting pizza, so _we_ ,” Steve Sings his finger in a loop, pointing at all of them, “ are getting pizza. Who gives a shit about wizards and—whatever the fuck— _hobbits_? I’m hungry. Hargrove’s hungry. And since you’re the one going around making promises, we’re getting anchovies on everything so. Suck it up.”

 

—

 

It’s strange, being around the two nerds and Steve, having them talk and laugh and Billy being included, part of whatever this is, and not being pissed. He doesn’t talk much at first. Calls Steve a few names, but Steve rolls with it, calls him some very particular names right back with a grin.

They get pizza. They eat outside on one of the little plastic tables. Billy’s got a soda and Steve’s got a pop—Billy gives him shit for _that_ for at least a solid five minutes.

Byers gets less wide eyed, a split second from running scared. He’s been blushing ever since he came out of the arcade. Eyes nailed to the ground, fighting with himself every other second when he glances up at Billy.

Billy is sober now. Can read _that_ kid cover to cover with one look. Would feel bad for him except he’s stuck in Hawkins too and ain’t that just shit for everyone.

Henderson, though, doesn’t let his guard down. The kid’s grown some balls, can meet his eyes easily to glare at him, puff up his little bird chest and act tough, but Billy can see he’s nervous around him.

Last night filters in and out of his head. He wonders if there are parts missing. If it even matters.

Billy picks at his slice and stares too much at the moles on the side of Steve’s face so he doesn’t stare at the mark he put on that slim neck peaking out from his collar. It’s getting darker, more obvious, and theres a part of Billy that’s proud—finally he’s left a mark on someone he wants that’s not from a punch or a kick. 

But then Steve will catch him looking and Billy’s gotta keep his cool. Eats his slice. Pokes at Henderson.

He replays the parts of last night he remembers. There was a piano, he knows. He hasn’t touched one since he was eleven.

He thinks about Steve singing and chokes on an anchovy.

Steve asks him what he did to scare the two kids off and Billy can’t cop to it outright.

All he says around a mouthful of food is, “ just pointed them in the direction of a dead dog they can poke at with a stick.”

Steve doesn’t buy it.

 

—

 

“If I can have the floor, Steven.”

Steve doesn’t look up from the slice he’s working on, piling his anchovies all together on one slice. “It’s _Steve_ and I’m gonna remind you that he’s sober now, so, maybe pull the schtick back a little.”

Henderson waves him off. “We—I—have a few things to discuss with you. One, you are _not_ a part of this party. Doesn’t matter if you guys are _friends_ or whatever he might’ve promised you.”

“Says the shithead who made promises I definitely can’t keep to _Keith_ who sucks so much.” Steve says over Billy’s confused _what words are you saying to me right now?_

“Two, you suck. A lot. Three,” Henderson pulls his hat from his backpack and holds it in front of Billy. “You owe me a new hat.”

It looks a little familiar. The writing’s smudged, but Billy can recognize his B’s and his L’s.

“Kid—“

“You know my name.” But Billy’s not about to play the kid’s game, so he keeps his mouth shut and waits him out for the two seconds it takes for _the kid_ to lose it. “Dustin. It’s _Dustin_.”

“ _Kid_ , here’s some free advice—“

“—yeah, ‘cause you seem real put together.”

“— _lose the hat_. Chicks don’t want nerdy hats.”

“It’s part of my _image_. Tell him Steve.”

“It is.” Steve tells him.

“You see Harrington wearing a hat? This fucker is the _king_. Know how many girlfriends he’s had? You know what he gets? He gets pussy. Know how often? At the drop of a—“ Billy points to Byers.

Byers squeaks out, red faced, “—hat?”

“Exactly. ” Billy snaps his fingers. Ignores Henderson’s _that doesn’t even make sense._ “Will knows what’s up.” Billy says just to watch Henderson get pissy, then adds, “lose the dweeb-cap, homeslice, then maybe you won’t have to mope after my sis for scraps.”

Henderson loses what wind he was sailing on, mouth left hanging open and Billy doesn’t get a lot of victories that don’t come with sore knuckles and split lips, but he can enjoy this one. The kid’s gotta learn eventually.

“ _Really_ , Hargrove? Mean.” Steve says, sharking his head. “He’s just bullshitting you again, dude, trust me.” Steve, _the dick_ , steals a piece of pizza from Billy and gives it to Henderson. “And, you know, _that_ , Dustin, is why I said to hold back and why you should maybe, like, listen to me? Just putting it out there.”

 

—

 

It’s amazing and shocking Billy’s still here, that he hasn’t driven away or lost his cool. He’s an odd piece that doesn’t quite _fit_ , but Steve’s still talking to him, even Henderson hasn’t told him to fuck off yet.

Byers though—he’s the saddest sack and you don’t _mope_ after winning a fight. It’s a rule. Doesn’t matter if you’re in California or Indiana, you win, you celebrate. A busted nose and a split lip are trophies.

Those teary eyes just irritate him. He wants to smack the kid upside the head, tell him to man up, but doubts that’ll go over well.

“That lil fucker’s gonna have a real good shiner by tomorrow.” Billy says to him. Byers jumps.

He stutters out, “I didn’t—I didn’t think I hit him that hard.”

“The nose doesn’t take much. It’s just a bunch of cartilage till you get to the bone bit.” Billy says. “You’re gonna have to claim it tomorrow.”

“He’s right. You gotta brag about it.” Steve chimes in.

Billy grins at him. Sees an opportunity to play. He’s his own worst enemy. “Say he cried for his mama.”

“Ooh, maybe spice it up with _he pissed his pants_.”

“Damn, Harrington, you’re taken it to the max.”

“Rock’n’roll for life, bro.”

It’s lame as _fuck_ , but Billy’s laughing. _Shit_.

Henderson stops to look between him and Steve. “ _This_ is gross. I liked it better when you were trying to kill each other, “ his mouth screws up like he tastes something sour, “things were way better when we thought Steve murdered you.”

“Dustin thought that, I—I didn’t. . . sorry.” Byers mutters.

“You were totally thinking it too, Will. There was, like, blood everywhere and if anyone deserves to kill Billy it’s Steve. Or Max. Or Lucas. Or, actually, me ‘cause you ruined my iconic hat and you said.” Henderson gags, “ _pussy_ and I’m seriously gonna ralph.”

“You’re both so fucking dumb, oh my god.” Steve shoots him a _this is what life has stuck me with_ look.

 

—

 

There’s no avoiding The Palace. Not with Steve telling him to _come on, don’t be a loser_.

Steve picks _Mario_ , Billy slouches over, slides on his aviators, and hangs around him, putting out the very clear _I don’t want to be here_ vibe. Listens to Steve narrate what he’s doing like Billy understands any of it. Then Steve’s shoving a quarter into Billy’s hand and it’s his turn.

He’s bad at it. He doesn’t even care about being good at it, but he doesn’t want to just be bad at it either.

Keith flocks to him. Points out what he’s doing wrong. Tells him _eight year olds who can barely see the screen_ are better at this than he is. Steve eats it up, laughing hard enough to need to brace himself on the console to keep from falling over and touching the carpet.

Like, there are punchable faces and then there’s Keith’s face and Steve has to—three times—keep Billy back from getting in Keith’s piece of shit nerd face and _obliterating him with his bare hands_.

He’s one more _wow, does your little sister drive for you, ‘cause your hand-eye coordination is garbage_ comment away from picking up one of the game consoles and throwing it at Keith’s enormous head.

He can do it. He’s gonna benchpress Keith in two at this rate.

“I’m so happy you’re worse than me. Holy shit.” Steve says. He’s pressed up against Billy’s shoulder to see the screen, sometimes their hips bump together and he’s laughing _a lot_ and Billy can _feel_ his laughter. Eyes lit up and shit. Billy’s a goner.

 

—

 

He realizes after the fifteenth time he dies and Steve is captaining the buttons while Billy manhandles the joystick, that he’s having fun. Actual fun. In Hawkins. With Steve. _In an arcade._

Billy’s mind really is blown.

 

—

 

Byers’ older brother walks through the door first, spots Byers playing some other game and goes over to him and then Nancy Wheeler walks in behind him and the air in the entire arcade seems to freeze up.

Billy’s not meant to have a good time. He forgot that and he doesn’t _ever_ forget it. As long as he’s got Neil’s hand around the back of his neck, there’s a limit and Billy’s way over it because five minutes ago it didn’t matter if Henderson and Byers stuck to Steve like glue because Steve’s attention was on _him_.

It’s not anymore. Wheeler has the ability to zero in on her ex within a split second and Steve goes from laughing and bumping shoulders with Billy to spotting her, grin sliding right off his face.

The chance happens quick and Billy spent weeks watching Steve mope around school to know this is what Wheeler does to Steve. Fucks him up and expects him to still play nice.

No avoiding her this time. Billy can read it in how Steve’s holding himself. Starting to slouch, arms crossing over his chest. Getting defensive.

Billy doesn’t move a muscle, watches Wheeler come over with a cool attitude. Wants to see what she does. Hopes she keeps herself in check and rethinks what she’s about to do and turns right around and walks out.

But he knows she won’t. They’re in the same AP English. Wheeler sits up front. She has a special glare she saves just for him every day. She doesn’t hassle him, though. Doesn’t say shit to him, probably talks plenty behind his back.

But she saw his face the day after, all bruised up and swollen. Must have assumed Steve was the one who’d done it. Billy never said otherwise to anyone who asked.

A mutual beating’s as close to fair as she’s gonna get.

Wheeler’s wringing her hands by the time she’s made her way over. She’s tiny. Delicate. Glassy pretty eyes. Doesn’t matter if her clothes look like they belong to her mother—she’s cute. The kind of girl that’d catch King Steve’s attention and keep it.

Billy hated her before she cheated on Steve. He’s never hated someone he wasn’t related to so much.

Loner Byers comes after her with his brother and Henderson trailing after him. He doesn’t even look at Steve and Billy wants to go off on him so he cracks his knuckles, focus mainly on Wheeler. Loner Byers is a paper bag. If it wasn’t for Tommy telling him he’d hammered Steve in a fight, Billy could stand next to the guy and forget he was there.

“Steve?” Wheeler says.

Billy takes in Steve’s clenched hands gripping at his own jacket and stays where he is. Steve’s not looking keen.

Billy moves between them, just a shift of his hips putting him a little in front of Steve, enough for Wheeler to get the message. Puts on a smile most girls get wet for.

“Why’s—“ Wheeler goes quiet, looking from Steve to Henderson to Byers and finally landing on Billy. _Why’re you here?_ left to hang in the air.

Steve puts his hand on Billy’s shoulder and Billy’s mouth snaps shut, his smile falters.

“He’s with me. _Us._ ” Steve says. “What’re you doing here?”

“Um.” Wheeler says. “Dustin called Jonathan, said there was trouble.”

Henderson wears guilt badly, says, “that was like two hours ago? What the hell? And your own brother!”

“Sorry.” Loner Byers says, trying to hide his blush. “We were, um, busy.”

“Well, the problem’s been solved, ladies.” Billy drawls. Leans into Wheeler’s space. Licks his lips. “You can walk that lil ass right back outside.”

Her entire face pinches together. She doesn’t budge. Loner Byers hands go from in his pockets to curled by his sides.

Billy’s hopped up on enough pent up _everything_ to throw down whenever the opportunity rises. Getting a crack at Loner Byers _and_ Wheeler is almost too good to be true.

“Can I talk to you, Steve?” Wheeler eyes Billy. “ _Alone?_ ”

Billy leans in even more, gets in right up in her space _even more_. Blocks her view of Steve. Smiles sweet as pie.

“You can talk to me all you want, sweetheart. I’ve heard I’m a _great_ listener.”

Bites at his bottom lip, looks her up and down pretending to check her out. Makes her think he’s gone through their entire night and is already twisting the condom and throwing it out the window of his camaro. Doesn’t let her catch on how he’s dying to give her a rattle for what she did to Steve.

She tilts to the left to worry over Steve. Concerned. Makes Billy’s hair stand on end.

“Tell me, _sweetheart_ , how’s the new stud? He gettin’ the job done?” Billy nods to Loner Byers. Watches her eye twitch. Watches Loner Byers start to stick out his chest.

“How’s beating up on defenseless little kids, _asshole?_ ” She spits out, fast as anyone and Billy loves her for it, wants her to lash out and give him an excuse.

“Well, _sweetheart_ , if a nail bat’s defenseless—shit, girl, what’re you packin’ under those A cups?”

“Clearly more than you’ve got packing in those jeans.”

“Big enough to keep mama Wheeler satisfied since ole dad ain’t gettin’ it up like he used to.”

That gets to her good, pisses her off. It’s not hard to spot adults in a shit marriage. If Billy can tell, sure as shit their kids know it. Billy’s grin just grows.

“Nance—“ Steve cuts in, his hand going to Billy’s chest, stopping him.

“Why is he here, Steve? Didn’t he—you hate him, why are you hanging out with him?”

“ _Definitely_ not getting the job done then.”

“You—“

“Hey—“ Steve pats Billy’s chest. Glances at him. Tells him to _chill_ with a hitch to his eyebrow.

“He _hurt_ you, Steve. What the hell are you doing with him?”

“All he did was punch me, Nance. Compared to you—“ Steve cuts himself off, laughs, bitter. He rubs at his nose. Billy wants to rush him to his car and get him the hell away from her.

But Wheeler goes pale, more concerned than ever.

“Are you okay, Steve?”

“Fine.” Steve says. “I’m—you know—fine.”

Wheeler reaches out, passed Billy, and touches Steve’s hand.

“Are you?” Wheeler says. “Can we—God. Can we talk? Please? Just the two of us?”

Steve says _sure_. Isn’t happy about it. Leaves Billy with the miniature shitheads and the big one with big fists Billy’s crossing his fingers will take a shot at him.

Steve grabs his arm _again_. A light touch. Says, “it’s cool.” Smiles. Tacks on, “don’t split, yeah?”

 

—

 

Billy heads outside to lean by the entrance to do the stupid—the stupidest—thing, like watch Steve and Wheeler talk. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he bets Wheeler’s flashing her big, girlie eyes at Steve and Steve’s buying it, falling for the act completely.

Billy heard through Tommy and most of the guys from the basketball team who love gossip as much as any housewife Billy’s run into that Steve called Wheeler a slut and that Wheeler had slapped Steve and Byers then beat his face into the asphalt.

They don’t start screaming at each other. No one throws anything. Wheeler doesn’t slap Steve and Steve doesn’t backhand her. She doesn’t leave in a dirty grey ford with a guy at least twenty years older than her, looking back only once to _wave_ and mouth _I’m sorry_ through a closed window.

They’re under one of the street lamps. Looking dramatic and lovesick together. Wheeler’s hand is back on Steve’s arm. Billy’s grinding his teeth, bites through his cig and spits it out on the ground.

Steve’s goes soft for her. She’s soft for him. They’re tender and familiar and lean in together and neither one of them raises their voices so the entire parking lot can hear them. Steve probably doesn’t even bring up Wheeler taking another guy’s dick.

Billy’s lighting another cigarette when Max comes running at him around the corner, red hair flying behind her like a rocket blast boosting her forward. Billy sees her coming and doesn’t try to move out of the way, there’s no fun in running.

She shoves Billy in the chest and Billy rocks back on his heels to absorb the hit.

Max has a furious look at that. She didn’t manage to knock him down, Billy thinks, smug, _gonna have to use a car next time_.

Or a bat.

Driving her and her little boyfriend around hasn’t brought them closer or done much else than to get Neil off his back.

“I told you to leave my friends alone.” Max hisses up at him. She’s getting taller, but Billy can still look down on her and he does it now, leans over, right in her face to smile.

“I was _invited_.”

Max’s glare breaks, confused. “By who?”

“Now, why should I tell you?”

“Because I will literally murder you, Billy.”

She’s serious too. Billy leans back to take a drag of his cigarette—thinks about blowing the smoke in her face, doesn’t because then she’ll stink of smokes and _Billy’s_ the one who’ll get reamed for it.

Billy straightens his shirt, scowls at what he finds. Small orange fingerprints. “What the hell, did you just eat Cheetos? Wipe your hands off before you hit a guy, shit.”

“You deserved it.”

“If we’re talking about what we deserve, _Maxine_ , don’t start. You’re not gonna come out as clean as you think you’re gonna.”

“Just—“ She groans, lips pinched in an ugly little scowl. “God. Just tell me, asshole.”

“You’re such a fucking brat, you know that? Like, goddamn, girl.” Annoying too. The world’s most obnoxious sister. “Harrington.”

 _That_ stumps her. “So you didn’t—to Will or Dustin?”

“If I’d had hit either one of’m, they’d have more than a bump on the nose.”

“So, what? You and Steve are, like, suddenly friends now? Since when?”

“We’re BFFs, didn’t you read the papers? All over the front page.” Billy crosses his fingers to show her just _how_ tight they are.

“Can you, like, ever _not_ be a complete freaking dickwad all the time?”

“Can you, like, ever _not_ be an annoying bitch all the time?” Billy mocks, liking how red Max’s face gets. A balloon about to pop and spaz out.

They stand there, glaring at each other, huffing in each other’s face and a leather jacket’s just a bandaid and being forced to chaperone her little dates is a drop in the bucket on days when just seeing Max is enough to set his Hargrove blood on an inherited fire.

Max’s hands twitch on her skateboard and Billy’s eyebrow cocks up, daring her to do it— _hit me, I fucking want you to._

But then she does the _super dumb and annoying thing_ of huffing and shoving one hand in her jacket and tucking the board against her side, glancing away. Shoulders still stiff with anger, but it’s not aimed at him. She’s been doing this more often like Billy’s not worth the fight.

Billy’s life is one dumb disappointment after another.

Side by side they stand outside the entrance together, not speaking. Kids going in and out of the arcade. Some of them stop to say _hi_ to Max and stare nervously at Billy over her shoulder who just glares at them, half tempted to snap his teeth too and really spook the locals. Max just keeps standing there and Steve’s _still_ talking to Wheeler like an absolute moron, so there’s no point in Billy moving.

Billy’s nearly smoked his way to the butt of his cigarette, ears no longer ringing, all the red slipping through his fingers with each puff, when he decides to poke at her again.

"You skateboard here? Susan finally take off the leash?”

"Why ask when you don't care?" Max doesn't look at him. Answers him anyways. “Mom’s doing _chores_ and it, like, takes forever, okay?” She gnaws on her gum, lips smacking together, obnoxious. Blows a bubble that Billy pops with his keys. “Your dad's really mad at you."

Billy shrugs. "He's always pissed at me."

“His face was all red.”

“That’s just how his face looks.”

"Is that why—“ Max purses her lips and Billy thinks he’s going to have to wrangle it out of her, but eventually she says quietly, "is that why you get so angry?”

 _Fuck off_. Billy would rather choke on the bud in his hand and keel over than answer that one even sarcastically.

Says sweetly, “Why ask when you don't care?"

Max's face screws up, goes pinched. Already damn ugly, she just get uglier. "Yeah, I don't care. I was just asking 'cause I felt sorry for you."

"Go be a bitch with your friends, Maxine, they get off on it. I don't."

“Don’t call me _Maxine_.”

“Don’t call me an _asshole_ and I won’t.”

“I really thought you were getting better, Billy, what the hell?” Max flips her skateboard onto the ground and turns her back to him, riding off with both middle fingers in the air just for him. She yells over her shoulder, “Ice-cream with Lucas on Tuesday!”

Billy crushes what’s left of his cigarette. Shoots a quick look at Steve hugging Nancy and heads to his camaro. He’s had enough for one day.

 

—

 

The camaro door isn’t shut before Billy’s got the ignition on and _The Number of The Beast_ flipped to side two and playing the title song.

The passenger door opens and Steve throws himself inside.

“Hey.” Steve says, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, jittery before curling his fists still on his lap. He’s gone glassy eyed. Miserable. Not quite crying, but on the edge of it. Welling up and about to drop any minute. If Billy wanted to, he could give Steve a push. A little bit of payback for last night—a cry for a cry.

For the first time in his entire life, Billy turns the volume down on Bruce Dickinson to _talk_ and Billy doesn’t know how to do the whole heart to heart thing, not without being mean and pissing Steve off.

“So,” Billy starts and grips the steering wheel with tight hands, drumming his fingers as he tries to think of something to say. “Keith’s the worst.”

Steve laughs, abruptly like it was forced out of him. Shocked.

“Oh my god, he totally is, right?” Steve says. Snickering into his hand. The laughs die down quick though, that lost look comes back in full force.

Steve grips his thighs. Arms in taut straight lines. Fingers turning white from how hard he’s clenching his hands. Building to something.

“I’m so tired of pretending, you know?” Steve says, voice uneven, trembling from holding everything back. “Like right now, the old me would say _let’s get some ice-cream_ or something dumb and pretend it’s all just _fine_ and fucking _dandy_ ,” Steve slaps his leg and Billy _jumps_ , “and I’d go home and—but, I’m just so—God. I’m so mad. At her and _Jonathan_ and my dumb ass, jesus christ, I didn’t know I could be this _mad_.”

Steve doesn’t shout. His fists are clenched on his lap, veins sticking out stark on his white knuckles, then he’s rubbing his eyes. Covering his face with both hands and _sighing_ everything out of him and breathing deep through his nose, stifling whatever was about to come out.

Billy doesn’t realize it until Steve’s gone quiet how tense he’s become. Waiting for the blow—for Steve to just strike out at him.

Anger isn’t new. Not his or other people’s. He’s spent his life drowning in it.

Steve’s not Neil, though. Or any of the assholes from California. Definitely not like Billy. Steve doesn’t play offense until he has to. He’s defensive until there’s no more line to tiptoe around.

Billy’s just a straight up asshole.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t—dumping _this_ , all of this on you isn’t—“ Steve takes a deep breath, “—you said it’s easier to just accept shit sometimes and I’m just. _Just_. She doesn’t get to act like she cares now. She didn’t care, that was the problem. _She didn’t fucking care_ and she doesn’t get to now.”

“Hell no, she doesn’t.”

“Sorry.”

“Fuck apologizing. Fuck that.”

Steve laughs, weak, but genuine.

“Nothing wrong with being pissed off.” Billy tells him and thinks he might not be full of shit for once. “She fucked around on you. You should be fuckin’ pissed the hell off, mi amigo.”

Steve drags his hands down his face, makes himself look goofy in the shit he’s found himself in and shows Billy the pink insides of his eyelids.

“And you’d know, huh?”

“Well, Harrington” Billy puffs out his chest and paints all the crud and muck inside of him gold, “I am a ball of sunshine and rage wrapped in a very nice package, you’re welcome.”

The look lingers. Steve’s considering him and Billy’s _nervous_ over what he must see. Spending one-on-one time used to be something he’d fantasize about, but he broke the hand off the door and now Steve can see all the grime inside of him.

Barely any time has passed since Billy’s gone and lost it. Used Harrington’s face like his own personal punching bag. Bit up his neck. Done enough dumb shit in the last twelve hours to make it hard to look Steve in the eyes and that makes it a miracle Steve can do it anyways.

Steve sighs. Goes lax in his seat.

“You and Wheeler looked pretty—” God, he just wants to shut himself up, “—friendly and shit.”

Steve’s smiles, pained. There’s a knife lodged in his chest and Billy’s no Arthur.

“I guess. I don’t—I don’t know. Just officially breaking up. We haven’t really _talked_ since, you know, for a while.”

“Good.”

Steve glances at him then shakes his head, smile gone sweet and lopsided. “Yeah.”

“Wheeler’s a self-righteous bitch.”

Steve’s not scandalized like he’s supposed to be. He’s just tired.

“No, she’s not.” Steve says and means it. “She just doesn’t love me.”

He laughs. Wipes his nose with the back of his hand like a kid.

Billy can hear himself swallow down _you deserve better_ holding back for once, like Billy has any concept of what’s _good_ , just knows Steve deserves someone who isn’t _bad_. Billy’s had a whole lifetime of bad. Knows a guy like Steve wouldn’t be able to take it and he shouldn’t have to.

Billy’s heart picks up, his pulse racing and he’s starting to sweat even though it’s cold in the camaro, in Hawkins. It’s because Steve’s been—Billy twists the steering wheel so tight it squeaks under his hands, his knuckles going white, the cut on his palm a sharp, breath stealing sting.

Steve is just sitting beside him. Not angry at him. Not upset with _him_. Steve chose to come sit with him. To not go to his little group. Hurting and about to cry, he chose _Billy_.

Steve’s bandaged him up. Took care of him all night. Been nice. Hasn’t thrown any of last night in his face like he should, like Billy would.

He didn’t have to take any of Billy’s shit. He didn’t have to invite Billy. He sure as fuck didn’t have to come sit by Billy, still wet in the eyes and tender.

The whole situation makes him squirm and want to run and he _never_ runs, not till he met Steve. He throws his fists in and hopes he gets hit back, smashed up and wrung out till every breath is on fire and the world can’t keep up with him.

 _We’re friends._ Steve said it so easily. The concept is shaky. Steve Harrington can’t be friends with _him_. He’s no golden boy. He’s jackshit.

“Your essay,” Billy says and immediately wants to take it back. Touchy-feely isn’t his area. Being nice isn’t his jam. “It wasn’t— _bad_.”

Billy fixes his focus on the arcade window, on their the camaro’s reflection and finds some scrap of calm just from seeing that blue.

“Hold on,” Steve says and Billy can _hear_ him grinning, about to laugh at him and he doesn’t even know Billy read it more than once. Read it again under a streetlamp, sitting four houses down from Steve’s an hour before he said he’d be there. That he stashed it in his toolbox in his trunk like a freak.

Steve says, “you read it? Actually read it? The whole thing?”

Billy shrugs and sneaks a peek—definitely a smile.

“You didn’t have to.”

“Was just curious if you could write a worse paper than the first one.”

“Right.” Steve says. “I guess _wasn’t bad_ is a step up from _worst thing ever._ ”

Billy folds his arms over his chest. “It was readable.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re such a needy fucker.”

“Oh my god, I meant it. _Thank you, Billy Hargrove._ That better?” Steve brushes back his hair, tugs at it. “Like, I know it’s a C and it’s still shit and Cobb keeps pushing me to get a tutor, but, I don’t know, it’s weird. I, like, _tried_ for once.”

“I told you I’d fire you up.“ Billy’s mouth runs without him, he can try and keep himself in check, but his hold never lasts long.

Steve’s attention is on him. Focused. Barely a foot away. Billy can hear him breathe out a quiet _yeah_.

The talking falls short. There’s only the music from the speakers, cars driving by, kids laughing and talking and yelling at each other, the grating sounds of arcade games slipping through the glass door when it’s swung open.

"Last night."

Billy can't bear the wait. Can't stand what Steve's about to say. "Spit it out, Harrington."

"I swear, Hargrove. Will you just." He sighs. "You didn't have to, you know, come over, I wouldn't expect you to or ever hold you to it or anything even if I did get an A somehow—but you did and it was—a little terrifying actually, but. I mean. _Fuck_." Steve tugs at his hair. Gives Billy another view of those Bambi eyes of his. "Don't sweat it. Last night, I mean.”

Except Billy's got sweat prickling on the back of his neck.

Gruff, he says, "wasn't planning to."

Every quiet second that passes, Billy freezes up more. Steve, he doesn’t know _what_ he’s doing. Can’t look over to check, instead he stares out the window into the arcade, listening to Bruce sing _they seem to mesmerize me can't avoid their eyes?/six six six the number of the Beast/six six six the one for you and me_. The volume’s too low and he doesn’t have the nerve to reach over and crank it up to drown out his panic, just as much as he doesn’t want to cut Steve off.

He’s unsure if he wants to avoid the whole mess or walk right into it all over again.

“How did you know which room was mine anyways?” Steve says. Billy nearly jumps in his seat. His palms have gone sweaty and clammy and gross and if he wipes them off Steve will _know_ and Steve already knows way too much.

Billy smooths his hands down the steering wheel.

“I spotted the dorkiest room and—voilà—it was yours.”

“On the second floor?”

There’s no way he can actually say _there’s this spot in your backyard where I can probably watch you jerk off in your own room_. Billy might have lost his footing, but he can handle this, bullshitting for bullshitting’s sake. Nothing to do with feelings. Not near anything soft or tender.

“Maybe I’m psychic.”

“Uh huh.” Steve’s starting to be less mopey. Billy can even spot the beginning of a dimple on his cheek.

“I know all about those pervy dreams you have about Mrs. Cobb. Some real shady, illegal stuff, Harrington. Straight up nasty.”

Steve shoves at his arm, “gross, dude, no. She’s like my grandma, but better. And not racist. And makes the best cookies—second to, you know, Claudia.”

Billy’s can’t keep from asking this time. “Who the fuck’s _Claudia?_ ”

Steve just rolls his eyes though, gives him a flat look.

“Dustin’s mom. She made that snickerdoodle you totally loved—and she told me to call her that. It’s not weird. Don’t even start.”

“It was _okay_.”

“Oh my—get out, motherfuckin’ lying lie face. It was _amazing_ and the best thing you’ve ever eaten in your entire life.”

“Did you fuck the cookie and fall in love with it or something?”

“Is it that hard to answer a question without being an ass?”

“Like, a little bit.”

“Christ.” Steve laughs. Says, tentatively, “how much of last night do you remember anyways?”

Billy wants to climb out his window of the camaro.

“Pieces of it.”

“Okay.” Steve takes a deep breath. Billy braces himself. “This is gonna sound weird, but do you—do you remember that thing we talked about? In the—the bathroom?”

Indiana boys are a pain in the ass—if Steve was just another hick Billy wouldn't be in this mess. But he is. But Billy’s got the wrong insides. He’s not good like Steve. No amount of hoping is going to change reality.

He finally has Steve’s attention and he knows better than to keep it.

 _This is it_ , Billy thinks.

“Not really, man.” He says. Doesn’t look at Steve. “A lot of it’s blurred to fuck.”

“Ah,” Steve’s gone stiff, but he recovers quick and says, “Right. Never mind. It’s fine, wasn’t anything anyways.”

 

—

 

Steve’s too dumb to learn Billy’s not worth all this effort. Knocking him out has done jack-all to get it through his skull. That should’ve done it, been the turning point for Steve to realize who Billy is—but he hasn’t and Billy’s torn.

Steve’s so hopeful, it stinks up the car and Billy knows he’d just disappoint. The truth is, he’s not cut out for the warmth cutting up his insides. Doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want it. Hates what being around Steve makes him feel. Like _what if’s_ are possible. Neil taught him better than that. Neil’s not gonna change. Neither is Billy. Neither is Steve.

It’s best to just forget it. Move on.

Steve’s got normal in his veins. Tits under his mattress.  A line of girlfriends proving Billy’s just a passing interest for a bored country kid. Steve can get a wife. Maybe win back Wheeler. Have kids and live till he’s ninety, be that nice old grandpa who won’t even remember Billy’s name, just some blond asshole he knew once.

Billy’s just an idiot who gets worked up for the first dick he sees, ignores what little self preservation he has to jerk off next to the guy he’s dumb enough to _like_.

Maybe he can be a friend. He hasn’t had a real one of those in a long time, tonight was _fun_. It could be nice to have someone to smoke with.

Billy takes his earring out. Pockets it. He lights up a smoke and curls his hand so his fingers dig in and the cut on his palm threatens to open back up, the pain surges through his system. A sharp, nice, familiarity.  

Billy wants to punch someone. Feel a jaw crack under his hand, let his knuckles break on impact. He wants to listen to his bones break.

That’s why his stomach had knotted up when Keith had asked if he was friends with Steve. He wants it to be true. _Friends_. More than that. Billy’s greedy and selfish, just like his mom. He wants everything Steve’ll give him. The scraps. The entire package. _Everything_.

But seeing Steve with Wheeler. How he looked at her. How he said her name— _Nance_.

Billy’s better than his mom. Better than Neil. He won’t do this to himself.

Steve’s calling him a _monster_ in his head. He’s rotten on the inside. He doesn’t want to be anymore.

But he just is.

 

—

 

A hand slams against the hood of the camaro. Billy’s fist shoots out the window, grabbing hold of a purple sweatshirt before he recognizes _the absolute nutjob_ for Henderson.

“Hey, hey, _hey_ —“ Henderson’s holding his hands up in surrender. Byer’s standing behind him, hands shoved into his pockets.

Billy lets him go, turns the ignition off. Henderson straightens his jacket. Puts his hand _back_ on the camaro and Billy can’t take that at all right now. “Were you guys planning to ditch us?”

“Get your greasy nerd hands off my car, kid.”

“My hands are _not_ greasy.” Henderson says, but he uses his sleeve to wipe the car off anyways. “Where we going now?”

“ _We_ ,” Billy points to himself than at the gremlins, “are going nowhere.”

“We should go see Nightmare on Elm Street.” Henderson ignores Billy and asks Steve. “Will says he _really, really_ wants to see it. Like, it’d make his entire month—no, his entire _year_. Especially if some candy gets involved.”

“Yes?” Byers says, cringing.

“How are you two twelve and this bad at lying?” Billy asks him. Henderson pushes on.

“We’re _thirteen_ and I’m not talking to you ever, anyways, because you lie about thing I love like some sort of psychotic psychopath— _come on, Steve_. Don’t you wanna go see it? You can buy the tickets and the popcorn and candy and pop—I’m all about the green M &M’s.”

Steve leans over Billy, putting his hand on the door to glare at Henderson up close. Billy can smell the Farrah Fawcett on his hair. Billy’s entire self just—evaporates.

Steve says, “why do you think _that_ makes me want to go?”

“Because?”

Steve waits for more of an answer and just as suddenly as he was in Billy’s space, he’s slumping back in his seat and smoothing a hand over his mouth, grumbling.

He perks up.

“Hey,” Steve says to Billy. “Have you seen it yet?”

He has, but Neil’s pissed off—the one thing Max doesn’t lie about—and spending anymore time with Steve is the biggest bad idea he’s ever had and Billy’s _pretty sure_ he’s gonna end up strangling Henderson before the credits roll.

Henderson snorts. “You don’t have to ask him, Steve. He lost so he _has_ to drive us wherever we want. He can just wait in the parking lot.”

“Don’t be a dick, Dustin.” Steve says over Billy’s outraged _the fuck_. Steve’s wincing, guilt making him rub the back of his neck when he turns to Billy. “You don’t have to—you were drunk. You said a lot of—it doesn’t count.”

Big brown eyes with no clue. Billy remembers with a slow dawning realization. Steve’s palm in his. The back of his hand hitting the counter.

“Yeah,” Billy doesn’t know what he’s thinking. All these trees have turned him stupid. “I could watch it again.”

“Yeah?” Steve brightens. The hopefulness is back. “Awesome. I’ll cover the tickets.” He turns to glare at Henderson. “Not buying you candy though.”

“I mean,” Henderson tugs around his backpack, pulls out a ziploc bag of cookies. Steve’s gaping at him. “You sure about that?”

“Did you have those the entire time?”

“I was saving them for the perfect moment—say a couple packs of M&M’s and a large popcorn and Coca Colas—as the people say, _leverage_.”

Billy says, “that’s not a saying. That’s a word.”

“You’re a _word_.”

“And you’re a _dumbass_.”

“You’re face is butt-ugly.”

“Kid, I’m hot, try again.”

Henderson shoves the cookies back into his bag. “You don’t get any cookies—Steve, don’t give him any. Will, I freaking swear to, like, God and He-Man, _don’t do it._ ”

Steve’s out of the car and without a word from Billy, he’s pulling his seat up and the kids are piling in. Saturday night and he’s playing babysitter. At least Max isn’t here making faces at Sinclair.

Long passed sundown and Billy’s pulling his aviators back on anyways.

He turns around in his seat. Waits till both Byers and Henderson are at attention.

“Rules: no eating in the car. No drinking in the car. No chewing gum or I swear to god I will skin you. And you, motherfucker,” he shoves his finger into Steve’s face, almost touching the tip of his nose. Steve smacks his hand away. “If you ever make me late for class, I'm gonna beat your face in worse than last time."

Steve jerks back, offended. “I was in the Business Leaders of America club, dude.”

“Sure. Okay. I bet there were lots of lil chicks there to eyeball while you _learned_.”

“Hey, man, I _learned_ , you know, like, _things_.”

“ _Yeah_. I’m _sure_ the skirts taught you plenty, big boy.”

“So funny. I literally cannot stop laughing.”

“Not as funny as you using Farrah Fawcett hairspray.” Billy forces himself to grin at the horrified realization on Steve’s face and Henderson’s squeal of _that’s supposed to be our secret, Steve!_

Putting miles between him and their _talk_ , Billy adds, “Oh, and you're paying for gas."

“Should I bring my own tires too or?"

“Zip it, Harrington."

Byers pokes Billy's shoulder with the edge of a cassette tape. Steve takes it before Billy can grab it, switches out the tape in the deck without asking.

 _Friends_ , Billy thinks. There’s a warmth growing roots inside of him and sprouting, growing taller when Steve turns the dial up and Bonnie Tyler’s voice fills the car, the parking lot, all of Hawkins, and Steve turns to smile at him. Billy remembers everything.

"You like Footloose, Hargrove?"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is finally done! It’s been one heck of a ride. Let me know if you liked it! 
> 
> And I just want to say: thank you to everyone who read this, left kudos, left a comment (I love you especially), messaged me over on tumblr (heart eyes for you), I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it! Seriously!
> 
> I’m so excited for part 3. Lot’s of things are going to be happening. It’s going to be a lot of fun~
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com) and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/cannibear)


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